Beethoven's Letters
I recently purchased a book on Beethoven's letters which has been keeping me spellbound. I feel, while reading the letters, that I have been transported back into Beethoven's time. Wonderful, wonderful reading. There is one letter that really is a revelation to me that I want to share with those of you who have not read it.
It was posted from Teplitz 17 July 1812
My Dear Emilie, My Dear Friend!
I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business, 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 or Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.
Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of esteem of many people, which I do not deserve.
Continue, do not only practice art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise man to the God-head. If my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears 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 excellences in man than those which causes 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 be for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as a fiend of your family.
Ludwig V. Beethoven
You would think that this is the end to the letter, not so. I was searching my mind trying to think who Emilie was. I had never read any references of her before. Then I turned the page and got my answer, and here it is.
[Thayer relates that Emilie M.,at H., was a little girl of eight or ten years old, who raved about Beethoven. This dear child wrote under the guidance of her governess to the composer, and added to the letter a piece of handiwork, a pocket-book, which she begged the master to accept. And thereupon followed the letter, a veritable cabinet-piece of artistic wisdom, in childlike language.]
And that my friends is a story of Beethoven and Emilie. I find no further reference in any of the other letters in the book to Emilie.
It was posted from Teplitz 17 July 1812
My Dear Emilie, My Dear Friend!
I am sending a late answer to your letter; a mass of business, 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 or Mozart; they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.
Your pocket-book shall be preserved among other tokens of esteem of many people, which I do not deserve.
Continue, do not only practice art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise man to the God-head. If my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears 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 excellences in man than those which causes 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 be for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as a fiend of your family.
Ludwig V. Beethoven
You would think that this is the end to the letter, not so. I was searching my mind trying to think who Emilie was. I had never read any references of her before. Then I turned the page and got my answer, and here it is.
[Thayer relates that Emilie M.,at H., was a little girl of eight or ten years old, who raved about Beethoven. This dear child wrote under the guidance of her governess to the composer, and added to the letter a piece of handiwork, a pocket-book, which she begged the master to accept. And thereupon followed the letter, a veritable cabinet-piece of artistic wisdom, in childlike language.]
And that my friends is a story of Beethoven and Emilie. I find no further reference in any of the other letters in the book to Emilie.
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