“What a pity,” he said to himself. “He well deserves better fortune. He is a pleasant, good-natured companion, but certainly his position as a member of the court chapel pays him but little, and it costs money to feed a wife and two little children. But he is past help. I cannot give him credit longer than eight days at the most. He already owes me too much.”
While the wine-shop keeper was making these reflections, his guest found his way with difficulty through the dark streets. Had it been lighter, one would have noticed by his actions that his craving for a “heart strengthener” had in no way bettered his condition. On the contrary, he appeared even more sullen and morose than when he found it. His brow was wrinkled. His lips, tightly closed by his bitter feelings, opened only to utter imprecations and words of discontent, as they had done a little while before.
After walking around for about five minutes he reached the Bonn Gasse. Here he lived in a small, narrow, dark part of the “Graus Haus.”[3] He entered boisterously, and with great difficulty climbed the dark, narrow staircase.
“Is it you, Johann?” asked a gentle voice on the floor above, while at the same time a gleam of light illumined the darkness.
“It is I,” replied the musician sullenly. “Have I come home a little too early, Marie?”
“Never too early, and you are always welcome, Johann,” replied the first voice, with the same gentleness as before. A pretty but somewhat faded woman stepped forward and cordially gave her hand to her husband to assist him up the last steps.[4] “What is the matter, Johann? You seem so gloomy! Think of it, this is the birthday of our little Ludwig.”[5]
The husband was visibly surprised, and pressed his hand to his brow.
“That I should have forgotten it!” he exclaimed. “But,” he added bitterly, “how would it have helped matters, anyway? I have not a kreuzer with which to make the little one happy.”
“Oh! do not let that trouble you, dear husband,” replied his wife, smiling. “Ludwig is happy enough, and cares nothing for presents and the like. If you would sing a little bit to him and play the piano a little he would be perfectly contented.”
“Certainly he can have that much, and at least it costs nothing,” replied Johann Beethoven in a somewhat more cheerful manner, as he returned the cordial handshake of his wife. “Yes, I will sing and play, and thereby drive the bad spirit of discontent out of my soul.”