something which goes out into all the world.  Those two poets are my favorite poets, also Ossian, Homer, the latter whom I can, unfortunately, read only in translation.  So these (Goethe and Schiller) you have only to shoot out from your literary store-house, and if you send them to me soon you will make me perfectly happy, and all the more so, seeing that I hope to pass the remainder of the summer in some cozy country corner.  The sextet is one of my early things, and, moreover, was written in one night; the best one can say of it is that it was composed by an author who, at any rate, has produced better works—­and yet, for many, such works are the best.

Farewell, and send very soon news to your most devoted

BEETHOVEN.

Of the ’cello Sonata I should like to have a few copies; I would indeed beg you always to send me half a dozen copies; I never sell any—­there are, however, here and there poor Musici, to whom one cannot refuse a thing of that sort.

NO. 220

TO BETTINA BRENTANO

Vienna, August 11, 1810.

Dearest Bettina (Friend!): 

No finer Spring than the present one—­I say that and also feel it, because I have made your acquaintance.  You yourself have probably seen that in society I am like a frog (fish) on the sand, which turns round and round, and cannot get away until a well-wishing Galatea puts him again into the mighty sea.  Yes, I was quite out of my element, dearest Bettina; I was surprised by you at a moment when ill-humor was quite master of me, but it actually disappeared at sight of you.  I at once perceived that you belonged to a different world from this absurd one, to which, with the best will, one cannot open one’s ears.  I myself am a wretched man and yet complain of others!—­You will surely forgive me, with your good heart, which is seen in your eyes, and with your intelligence, which lies in your ears—­at least our ears know how to flatter when they listen.  My ears, unfortunately, are a barrier-wall through which I cannot easily hold friendly communication with men, else—­perhaps!—­I should have had more confidence in you.  So I could only understand the great, intelligent look of your eyes, which so impressed me that I can never forget it.  Dear Bettina (friend), beloved Maiden!—­Art!—­Who understands it, with whom can one speak concerning this great goddess!  How dear to me were the few days when we gossiped or rather corresponded together!  I have kept all the little notes on which stand your clever, dear, very dear, answers; so I have, at any rate, to thank my bad hearing that the best part of these fleeting conversations has been noted down.  Since you went away I have had vexatious hours, hours of darkness, in which one can do nothing; after your departure I roamed about for full three hours in the Schoenbrunner Alley, also on the ramparts; but no angel met me who could take such hold on me as you,