"Nor shall I be the last. Why should I despair? Come, be reasonable, mon ami! you are too self-condemnatory. Have you forgotten Handel, whom you welcomed here three years since?"
"How could I forget him?"
"Yet Handel is unlike your father. His fantasy is more powerful, his force more developed; he soars like an eagle, while Sebastian Bach sails over the calm waters like a majestic swan. Bach's activity is calm, silent—the offspring of concentrated thought. Handel reaches his aim amid storm and tumult—through strife to victory. Can you blame him for the difference? His path is your own. En avant, mon ami!"
"Handel has had, indeed, a restless and stormy life," replied Friedemann; "but he has never lost himself."
"Had he been born in the present century, instead of the last, his views might have been more liberal. Before he was of your age, he did as others do. Faustina Hasse could tell you some wild tales—"
"He never played the hypocrite to his father!" said Friedemann bitterly.
"It was not worth while. Now, my good fellow, do not flatter yourself you can deceive a page forty years old. Your so-called profligacy and keen self-reproach have another cause than that you choose to assign. You dread the unmasking of what you term your hypocrisy less than the discovery of another secret!"
Friedemann started to his feet, and his face glowed like fire. The page laughed.
"You must govern your eyes better, mon ami, if you want to keep your secret when you hear the name of 'Natalie.' I did not need to witness your behavior last night opposite the minister's palace, to show me the truth!"
Friedemann was now pale as death. With a violent effort he mastered his feelings, and said,