It would be wrong towards my son Ludwig, if I were to mix other feelings with joy at his return; and it is also wrong towards myself not to permit a single pleasure to be without alloy.
My spirits were, however, not a little checked on my being reminded of Ernst. Every nerve in me trembled, so that I began to believe that I would not be able to survive the hour in which I should again see Ludwig. But now the sad thought that had floated across my mental horizon soothed my excited nerves.
Ludwig had sent me his photograph from Paris, in order that I might recognize him at once.
He had placed the pictures of his wife and of his son in the same package.
I read over his last two letters again.
In a letter from Paris, dated Sunday, April 24th, he wrote:
"Here I am in the midst of the hubbub in which the 'saviour of the world' is permitting the people to vote. It is truly a demoniac art, this power of counterfeiting the last word of truthfulness. In order that nothing may remain uncorrupted, the ministers declare that the question of the day is to secure tranquillity to the land for the future, so that, both on the throne and in the cottage, the son may peacefully succeed his father. The last lingering traces of modesty and purity are being destroyed; the last remnant of piety is appealed to in order to carry out the deceit.
"How glad I should be, on the other hand, to bathe my soul in the pure waves of great harmonies. The thought that I shall enter my Fatherland in time to assist in celebrating the Centennary of Beethoven's birth is an inspiring and an impressive one to me."
Joseph was at Bonn, awaiting the expected guests. He was again successful in combining high objects with business profits; he concluded a contract to build the festival building out of trees from the Black Forest.
I looked at Ludwig's picture, and it seemed to me, indeed, as if I were looking at my father in his youth. All generations seemed to be combined in one, as if there were no such thing as time.