"In our club, yes; yet one year has spread your fame in music over all Europe! Friedemann Bach has but one rival in renown—the admirable Sebastian!"
A flush mounted to the young man's brow.
"Call him not a rival!" he exclaimed. "I have to thank my father for all I have ever done; and I feel my own insignificance beside his greatness. I feel, too, how unworthy I am of his love."
"Nonsense!" cried Scherbitz. "Your good father is strict, perhaps; pourquoi? he is old; you are young and impetuous; you have your liberal ideas and your adventures, and keep them from his knowledge, to spare him chagrin. Where is the harm in this?"
Friedemann was leaning his head on his hand, which he passed slowly across his forehead, as if waving away the trouble of discussing the point. The punch was placed before them, and the tankards were filled. The guests at the round table drank, as they did; and others came in; among them military officers, painters, and musicians. As a party of distinguished-looking persons entered, the page rose to greet one of them, calling him "Signor Hasse." The gentleman glanced around the company, but declined a seat at the table, retreating to a distant corner. Here he bade the waiter remove the light from a small table in front of him, and bring him supper by himself.
The page called Friedemann's attention to the solitude and gloom chosen by the famous musician. Yet he was well known to be fond of good company, and was universally respected.
"Is it on account of his wife?" asked young Bach.
"Exactly; the brilliant Faustina Hasse, the admired singer, the idolized of all Dresden. They do not live happily."
"You cannot help seeing," observed Friedemann, "that strength is wanting in his character—it is wanting in his compositions. They have softness and melody; but how little of manly power!"
"Yet he is the favorite composer in the world of fashion."