ilty
toward you, dearest Bettina, of whom we had just been speaking. Good
heavens! Had I been in your company, as he has, I should have produced
works of greater, far greater, importance. A musician is also a poet,
and the magic of a pair of eyes can suddenly cause him to feel
transported into a more beautiful world, where great spirits make sport
of him and set him mighty tasks. I cannot tell what ideas came into my
head when I made your acquaintance. In the little observatory during the
splendid May rain--that was a fertile moment for me; the most beautiful
themes then glided from your eyes into my heart, which one day will
enchant the world when Beethoven has ceased to conduct. If God grant me
yet a few years, then I must see you again, dear, dear Bettina; so calls
the voice within me which never errs. Even minds can love each other. I
shall always court yours; your approval is dearer to me than anything in
the whole world. I gave my opinion to Goethe, that approval affects such
men as ourselves and that we wish to be listened to with the intellect
by those who are our equals. Emotion is only for women (excuse this);
the flame of music must burst forth from the mind of a man. Ah! my
dearest child, we have now for a long time been in perfect agreement
about everything! The only good thing is a beautiful, good soul, which
is recognized in everything, and in presence of which there need be no
concealment. _One must be somebody if one wishes to appear so_. The
world is bound to recognize one; it is not always unjust. To me,
however, that is a matter of no importance, for I have a higher aim. I
hope when I get back to Vienna to receive a letter from you. Write soon,
soon, and a very long one; in 8 days from now I shall be there; the
court goes tomorrow; there will be no more performance today. The
Empress rehearsed her part with him. His duke and he both wished to play
some of my music, but to both I made refusal. They are mad on Chinese
porcelain, hence there is need for indulgence; for the intellect has
lost the whip-hand. I will not play to these silly folk, who never get
over that mania, nor will I write at public cost any stupid stuff for
princes. Adieu, adieu, dearest; your last letter lay on my heart for a
whole night, and comforted me. _Everything_ is allowed to musicians.
Great heavens, how I love you!

Your sincerest friend and deaf brother,

BEETHOVEN.

NO. 615

TO HERR VON GOETHE

Vienna, April 12