elf seen,
that, in society, I was like a fish cast on the sand, that writhes, and
struggles, and cannot escape, until some benevolent Galatea helps back
again into the mighty sea; in very truth, I was fairly aground. Dearest
Bettine, unexpectedly I met you, and at a moment when chagrin had
completely overcome me; but, truly, your aspect put it to flight. I was
aware in an instant that you belong to a totally different world from
this absurd one, to which, even with the best wish to be tolerant, it is
impossible to open one's ears. I am myself a poor creature, and yet
complain of others! this you will, however, forgive, _with the kindly
heart that looks out from your eyes, and with the intelligence that
dwells in your ears_--at least, your ears know how to flatter when they
listen. Mine, alas! are a barrier through which I can have hardly any
friendly intercourse with mankind, else, perhaps, I might have acquired
a still more entire confidence in you. As it was, I could only
comprehend the full, expressive glance of your eyes, and this has so
moved me that I shall never forget it. Divine Bettine! dearest girl!
Art! who comprehends the meaning of this word? With whom may I speak of
this great divinity? how I love the recollections of the few days when
we used to chat with each other, or rather correspond. I have preserved
every one of the little scraps of paper on which your intelligent,
precious, most precious replies were given--thus, at least, may I thank
my worthless ears that the best portion of our fugitive discourse is
retained in writing.

"Since you went, I have had many uncomfortable hours, in which the power
to do anything is lost. After you had gone away, I rambled about for
some three hours in the Museum at Schoenbrunn; but no good angel met me
there, to chide me into good humour, as an angel like you might have
done. Forgive, sweetest Bettine, this transition from the fundamental
key--but I must have such intervals to vent my feelings.

"And you have written of me to Goeethe, have you not? saying that I would
fain pack up my head in a cask, where I should see nothing and hear
nothing of what passes in the world, since you, dearest angel, meet me
here no longer. But, surely I shall at least have a letter from you.
Hope supports me--she is, indeed, the nursing mother of half the world,
and she has been my close friend all my life long--what would have
become of me else? I send with this 'Knowest thou the land