[Anderson footnote: “Nothing is known about the recipient of this letter, who possibly lived at Hamburg. According to TDR III, 318-319, she was a little girl of 8-10 years, who played the piano and had sent Beethoven a wallet, her own handiwork, in a letter expressing her admiration for his compositions.”]
My Dear, Kind Emilie, My Dear Friend!
My reply to your letter to me is late in arriving. My excuse must be a great amount of business and persistent illness. The fact that I am here for the recovery of my health proves the truth of my excuse. Do not rob Handel, Haydn and Mozart of their laurel wreaths. They are entitled to theirs, but I am not yet entitled to one.
Your wallet will be treasured among other tokens of a regard which several people have expressed for me, but which I am still far from deserving.
Persevere, do not only practice your art, but endeavor also to fathom its inner meaning; it deserves this effort. For only art and science can raise men to the level of gods. If, my dear Emilie, you should ever desire to have anything, do not hesitate to write to me. The true artist has no pride. He sees unfortunately that art has no limits; he has a vague awareness of how far he is from reaching his goal; and while others may perhaps be admiring him, he laments the fact that he has not yet reached the point whither his better genius only lights the way for him like a distant sun. I should probably prefer to visit you and your family than to visit many a rich person who betrays a poverty of mind. If I should ever go to H., then I will call on you and your family. I know of no other human excellences than those which entitle one to be numbered among one’s better fellow creatures. Where I find people of that type, there is my home.
If you want to write to me, dear Emilie, just address your letter to Teplitz where I am staying on for four weeks. Or you may write to Vienna. It really doesn’t matter. Look upon me as your friend and the friend of your family.
Ludwig v. Beethoven