Part 12 (1/2)
”LUDWIG.”
”_Monday evening, 6th July._
”Thou grievest--thou--the dearest of all beings!--I have just learned that the letters must be sent off very early. Mondays and Thursdays are the only days on which the post goes to K---.--Thou grievest! Ah! where I am, there thou art with me--with our united efforts I shall attain my object--I shall pa.s.s my life with thee--what a life!!! whereas now!!! without thee--persecuted at times by the kindness of others, a kindness which I neither deserve nor wish to deserve. Servility from man to his fellow-creature pains me; and, when I consider myself in relation to the universe, what am I? what is he who is called the greatest? and yet even here is displayed the Divine in man!--I weep when I think that thou wilt probably receive no tidings of me before Sat.u.r.day. However much thou mayest love me, I love thee more fervently still--never hide thy feelings from me.--Good night! as a patient here I must now go to rest. Ah, G.o.d! so near!--so far apart! is not our love a true celestial mansion, enduring as the vault of heaven itself!”
”_7th July._
”Good morning!
”Even before I rise my thoughts throng to thee, my immortal beloved, at times with joy, then again mournfully, waiting to hear if fate be favourable to us. I can only live entirely with thee, or not at all.
Yes! I am resolved to wander apart from thee until the moment shall arrive when I may fly into thine arms, may feel my home in thee, and send my soul encompa.s.sed by thine into the world of spirits. Yes, alas! it must be so! Thou wilt be prepared, for thou knowest my faithfulness. Never can another possess my heart; never, never. Oh G.o.d! why must I fly from what is so dear to me?--and yet my life in V---- is, as at present, a sorrowful one. Thy love made me at once the happiest and the most miserable of men. At my age I require a uniformity, an evenness of life; and can this be possible in our relations?--Angel! I have just heard that the post goes out every day; and must stop that thou mayest receive this letter soon.--Be calm; only by calmly viewing our existence can we attain our aim of pa.s.sing our lives together. Be calm; love me--to-day--yesterday--what longing, what tears for thee--for thee--for thee--my Life! my All! Farewell! Oh! continue to love me--never misjudge the faithful heart of thy lover.
L.
”Ever thine,
”Ever mine,
”Ever each other's.”
It was indeed the case that no other love ever did ”possess his heart”
in the same way. This was, if not his first, at least his only _real_ love. Such letters as these Beethoven wrote to no one else; the contrast between them and the three following (addressed to Bettina Brentano, afterwards Madame von Arnim) will be at once apparent:--
”_Vienna, August 11, 1810._
”DEAREST FRIEND,--Never has there been a more beautiful spring than this year; I say so, and feel it too, because in it I first made your acquaintance. You have yourself seen that in society I am like a fish on the sand, which writhes, and writhes, and cannot get off until some benevolent Galatea throws it back into the mighty ocean.
I was, indeed, quite out of my element, dearest friend, and was surprised by you at a time when discouragement had completely mastered me--but how quickly it vanished at your glance! I knew at once that you must be from some other sphere than this absurd world, in which, with the best will, one cannot open one's ears. I am a miserable being, and yet I complain of others!!--But you will forgive me for this with that good heart which looks out of your eyes, and that intelligence which is hidden in your ears,--at least they know how to flatter by the way in which they listen.
”My ears are, alas! a part.i.tion wall through which I cannot easily have any friendly intercourse with men. Otherwise!--perhaps!--I should have felt more a.s.sured with you; but I could only understand the full, intelligent glance of your eyes, which has so taken hold of me, that I shall never forget it. Dear friend, dearest girl!--Art! who understands her? with whom can I discuss this great G.o.ddess?... How dear to me are the few days in which we chatted together, or, I should say, rather corresponded! I have preserved all the little notes with your witty, charming, most charming answers, and so I have to thank my defective hearing that the best part of those hasty conversations is written down. Since you left I have had vexatious hours--hours of shadow in which I can do nothing.
I wandered in the Schonbrunn Allee for about three hours after you left, but no angel met me who could have taken possession of me as you did, _my Angel_.
”Pardon, dearest friend, this deviation from the original key, but such intervals I must have as a relief to my heart. So you have written about me to Goethe, have you not? I could bury my head in a sack, so that I might not hear or see anything of all that is going on in the world, because I shall not meet you again, dearest angel, but I shall receive a letter from you soon. Hope sustains me, as she does half the world; through all my life she has been my companion.
What would otherwise have become of me?--I send you 'Kennst du das Land,' written with my own hand, as a remembrance of the hour in which I first knew you. I send you also another, which I have composed since I took leave of you; my dearest _Herz_!”
Herz, mein Herz, was soll das geben, Was bedranget dich so sehr; Welch ein neues, fremdes Leben, Ich erkenne dich nicht mehr.
”Answer me at once, dearest friend; write and tell me what is to become of me since my heart has turned such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,
”BEETHOVEN.”
”_Vienna, 10th February, 1811._
”DEAR, BELOVED FRIEND,--I have already had two letters from you, and see from those to Tonie that you still remember me, and even too kindly. Your first letter I carried about with me the whole summer, and it has often made me very happy. Although I do not write to you frequently, and you see nothing at all of me, yet in thought I write you a thousand times a thousand letters. How you must feel in Berlin amongst all the frivolous, worldly rabble, I could imagine, even though you had not written it to me yourself,--mere prating about Art without any results!! The best description of this is to be found in Schiller's poem, 'The River,' in which the Spree speaks.--You are about to be married, dear friend, or are so already, and I have not been able to see you even once previously.
May all the felicity with which marriage blesses those who enter into her bonds be poured upon you and your husband! What shall I say to you about myself? I can only exclaim with Johanna, 'Compa.s.sionate my fate!' If I am but spared for a few years longer, I will thank Him who embraces all within Himself--the Most High--for this as well as for all other weal and woe.--If you should mention me when writing to Goethe, strive to find all those words which can express to him my deepest reverence and admiration. I am just about to write to him myself regarding 'Egmont,' to which I have composed the music, solely out of love for his poetry, which always makes me happy;--but who can sufficiently thank a Poet, the most precious jewel of a Nation! Now no more, my dear, good friend. I only returned this morning from a _Baccha.n.a.le_ where I laughed too heartily, only to weep nearly as much to-day; boisterous joy often drives me violently back upon myself. As to Clemens, many thanks for his courtesy; with regard to the Cantata, the subject is not important enough for us, it is very different in Berlin. As for my affection, the sister has so large a share of it that not much is left for the brother--will he be content with this? Now farewell, dear, dear friend. I imprint a sorrowful kiss upon your forehead, thus impressing, as with a seal, all my thoughts upon it. Write soon, soon, often, to your Brother,
”BEETHOVEN.”