It is a mistake to think that the price of my art has become easy to me.

I have never written the music that was in my heart to write; perhaps I never shall with this brain and these fingers, but I know that hereafter it will be written; when instead of these few inlets of the senses through which we now secure impressions from without, there shall be a flood of impressions from all sides; and instead of these few tones of our little octave, there shall be an infinite scale of harmonies - for I feel it - I am sure of it. This world of music, whose borders even now I have scarcely entered, is a reality, is immortal.

Nor do I hear in my imagination the parts successively, but I hear them, as it were, all at once (gleich dies zusammen). What a delight this is I cannot tell ! All this inventing, this producing, takes place in a pleasing lively dream.

You know that I become quite powerless whenever I am obliged to write for an instrument which I cannot bear.

You know that I immerse myself in music, so to speak- that I think about it all day long- that I like experimenting- studying- reflecting.

Forgive me, Majesty. I am a vulgar man! But I assure you, my music is not.

It is a mistake to think that the price of my art has become easy to me.