Vienna, July 29, 1819.  Beethoven, whom I should have liked to see once more in this life, lives somewhere in this country, but nobody can tell me where.  I wanted to write to him, but I am told he is almost unapproachable, as he is almost without hearing.  Perhaps it is better that we should remain as we are, for it might make me cross to find him cross.

Much is thought of music here, and this in contrast to Italy, which reckons itself the “only saving Church.”  But the people here are really deeply cultured in music.  It is true that they are pleased with everything, but only the best music survives.  They listen gladly to a mediocre opera which is well cast; but a first-class work, even if not given in the best style, remains permanently with them.

Beethoven is extolled to the heavens, because he toils strenuously and is still alive.  But it is Haydn who presents to them their national humour, like a pure fountain unmingled with any other stream, and it is he who lives among them, because he belongs to them.  They seem each day to forget him, and each day he rises to life again among them.

III.—­“Poetry and Truth"

Weimar, March 29, 1827.  The completion of a work of art in itself is the eternal, indispensable requisite.  Aristotle, who had perfection before him, must have thought of the effect.  What a pity!  Were I yet, in these peaceful times, possessed of my youthful energies, I would surrender myself entirely to the study of Greek, in spite of all the difficulties of which I am conscious.  Nature and Aristotle would be my aim.  We can form no idea of all that this man perceived, saw, noticed, observed; but certainly in his explanations he was over-hasty.

But is it not just the same with us to-day?  Experience does not fail us, but we lack serenity of mind, whereby alone experience becomes clear, true, lasting, and useful.  Look at the theory of light and colour as interpreted before my very eyes by Professor Fries of Jena.  It is a series of superficial conclusions, such as expositors and theorists have been guilty of for more than a century.  I care to say nothing more in public about this; but write it I will.  Some truthful mind will one day grasp it.

Weimar, April 18, 1827.  Madame Catalini has scented out a few of our extra groschen, and I begrudge her them.  Too much is too much!  She makes no preparation for leaving us, for she has still to ring the changes on a couple of old-new transmogrified airs, which she might just as well grind out gratis.  After all, what are two thousand of our thalers, when we get “God save the King” into the bargain?

It is truly a pity.  What a voice!  A golden dish with common mushrooms in it!  And we—­one almost swears at oneself—­to admire what is execrable!  It is incredible!  An unreasoning beast would mourn at it.  It is an actually impossible state of things.  An Italian turkey-hen comes to Germany, where are academies and high schools, and old students and young professors sit listening while she sings in English the airs of the German Handel.  What a disgrace if that is to be reckoned an honour!  In the heart of Germany, too!