ber right, made him really anxious; and so long as I stood up for Beethoven and exalted him above everybody the trouble only grew worse, and once, I believe, I was sent out of the room. But presently it struck me that it was possible to say a great many true things, and yet not precisely those which father could not endure to hear, and then things went on better and came quite right in the end. Perhaps you, too, have forgotten a little how needful it is to give way now and then. Father thinks himself older and more excitable than, thank God, he really is, and it is our part to make concessions to him, be the right ever so much on our side, just as he has so often yielded to us. So praise a little the things he likes, and don’t find fault with the old-fashioned established things that are rooted in his heart. And only praise novelties when they have acquired some sort of acceptance in the world, for till then it can only be a question of taste. I should like to see you draw father prettily into your circle and amuse him; in short, try to smooth away the difficulties, and remember that, after all, travelled man of the world as I am, of course, I have never yet found a family that, taking account of all our weaknesses and vexations and faults, has been so happy as we have up till now.
Don’t answer this, for your letter would not reach me for four weeks, and then something else would have happened. Finally, if it is stupid of me to write this, I don’t intend to take a scolding from you; and if I am right, you had better follow my good advice.
