Heart, my heart, what bodes the crisis,
What oppresseth thee so sore?
What a strange, untoward life this!
I can fathom thee no more.
Yes, dearest Bettina (friend), send me an answer, write to me what will happen to me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,
TO EMILIE M. AT H.
Teplitz, July 17, 1812.
My Dear Good Emilie, My Dear Friend!
I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business and constant illness must be my excuse. That I am here for the restoration of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not snatch the laurel wreaths from Handel, Haydn, Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.
Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of the esteem of many men, which I do not deserve.
Continue, do not only practise art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the Godhead. If, my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, for he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and, though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people than to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come to H., I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies in man than those which cause him to rank among better men; where I find this, there is my home.
If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here where I shall remain for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family.
LUDWIG V. BEETHOVEN.
TO BETTINA VON ARNIM
Teplitz, August 15, 1812.
Dearest, good Bettina!