“Ah, Johann!” interposed Madame von Beethoven, “you do not know the boy! He has the best and most docile of dispositions, if you only manage him in the proper way.”
“The proper way!” repeated the father; “and so I must coax and cajole him, and ask his leave humbly to give him a word of instruction!”
“No, certainly; only grant him the same indulgences you allow to his brothers.”
“He is not like Carl and Johann,” was the muttered answer; “they ought not to be treated alike.”
“Nay, nay, neighbor,” said Simrock, earnestly.
“Let us talk no more about it,” interrupted Beethoven; “I know well what I am doing; and my reasons are satisfactory to myself. These boys are a comfort to me; a couple of fine lads; I need hardly ever speak to them, for they are ready to spring at a glance; they always obey me with alacrity and affection. Louis, on the other hand, has been bearish from his infancy. I have never sought to rule him by fear, but only to drive out a little of his sulkiness now and then; yet nothing avails. When his brothers joke with him, as all boys will sometimes, he usually quits the room murmuring; and it is easy to see he would fain beat them if he were not afraid of me. As to his studies, music is the only thing he will learn—I mean with good will; or if he consents to apply himself to anything else, I must first knock it into him that it has something to do with music. Then he will go to work, but it is his humor not to do it otherwise! If I give him a commission to execute for me, the most arrant clodpole could not be more stupid about it.”
“Let him alone, then, to live for his favorite art,” said Herr Simrock. “It is often the case that the true artist is a fool in matters of every-day life.”
“Those are silly fancies,” answered Beethoven, again laughing. “Helen is always talking so. The true artist is as much a man as others, and proves himself so; will thrive like the rest of the world, and take care of his family. I know all about it; money—money’s the thing! I mean Louis to do well; and that he may learn to do well, I spare not trouble—nor the rod either, when it is necessary! The boy will live to thank me for my pains.”
Here the conversation was interrupted, and the subject was not resumed. The hours flew lightly by; it struck nine, and the festive company separated, to return to their homes.
Carl and Johann were in high glee as they went home; they sprang up the steps before their father, and pulled the door bell. The door was opened, and a boy about twelve years old stood in the entry, with a lamp in his hand. He was short and stout for his age; but a sickly paleness, more strongly marked by the contrast of his thick black hair, was observable on his face. His small grey eyes were quick and restless in their movement, very piercing when he fixed them on any object, but softened by the shade of his long dark lashes; his mouth was delicately formed, and the compression of the lips betrayed both pride and sorrow. It was Louis Beethoven.