Nothing is known with certainty of Beethoven's "immortal beloved," whose name vibrates throughout the Adagio of the Moonlight Sonata. The letters to her (of date unknown, written from some baths in Hungary, whither he had been ordered for his health) breathe the very intensity of passion—a passion at times too deep for words.[30]
"Morning, 6th July.
"My Angel! my All! my Second Self!
"Only a few words to-day, written with a pencil (with thine). My residence will not be definitely fixed before to-morrow. What a ruinous waste of time!—Why this deep sorrow where Necessity speaks? can our love exist otherwise than by sacrifices, than by our not expecting everything? Canst thou alter the fact that thou art not wholly mine, that I am not wholly thine?—Alas! look into the beauties of Nature, and calm thy mind for what must be endured. Love demands all, and with perfect right, and thus I feel towards thee and thou towards me, only thou forgettest so easily that I have to live for myself and for thee,—were we perfectly united, thou wouldst feel this trial as little as I do.
"My journey was terrible. I only arrived yesterday at four o'clock in the morning, owing to the want of horses. The driver chose another route, but what a fearful one! At the last station they warned me not to travel by night, and tried to terrify me by a forest, but this only stimulated me, though I was wrong. The carriage broke down on that dreadful road, a mere rough, unmade country lane, and had not my postillions been what they were, I should have been obliged to remain there by the wayside.
"Esterhazy, on the usual route, had the same fate with eight horses that I had with four, and yet I felt a certain degree of pleasure, as I always do when I overcome anything happily.—Now, in haste, from the outer to the inner man! We shall probably soon see each other again. I cannot communicate to thee to-day the reflections I have been making, during the last few days, on my life—were our hearts ever near to one another, I should make none such. My heart is full of much that I have to say to thee. Ah! there are moments in which I feel that language is absolutely nothing. Take courage! continue to be my true, my only treasure, my All, as I am thine. The gods must send the rest—that which is ordained to be, and shall be for us.
"Thy faithful
"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 pass 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 Saturday. 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, God! so near!—so far apart! is not our love a true celestial mansion, enduring as the vault of heaven itself!"