also find Schuppanzigh, and both of us will
blow you up, thump you, and shake you; so you will have a fine time of
it.

Your Beethoven, also named Mehlschoeberl, embraces you.

NO. 35

TO CARL AMENDA AT WIRBEN IN COURLAND

Vienna, June 1, 1800.

My Dear, My Good Amenda, My Heartily Beloved Friend:

With deep emotion, with mixed pain and pleasure, did I receive and read
your last letter. To what can I compare your fidelity, your attachment
to me. Oh! how pleasant it is that you have always remained so kind to
me; yes, I also know that you, of all men, are the most trustworthy. You
are no Viennese friend; no, you are one of those such as my native
country produces. How often do I wish you were with me, for your
Beethoven is most unhappy and at strife with nature and the Creator. The
latter I have often cursed for exposing His creatures to the smallest
chance, so that frequently the richest buds are thereby crushed and
destroyed. Only think that the noblest part of me, my sense of hearing,
has become very weak. Already when you were with me I noted traces of
it, and I said nothing. Now it has become worse, and it remains to be
seen whether it can ever be healed. * * * What a sad life I am now
compelled to lead! I must avoid all that is near and dear to me, and
then to be among such wretched egotistical beings as ----, etc.! I can
say that among all Lichnowski has best stood the test. Since last year
he has settled on me 600 florins, which, together with the good sale of
my works, enables me to live without anxiety. Everything I write, I can
sell immediately five times over, and also be well paid. * * * Oh! how
happy should I now be if I had my perfect hearing, for I should then
hasten to you. As it is, I must in all things be behindhand; my best
years will slip away without bringing forth what, with my talent and my
strength, I ought to have accomplished. I must now have recourse to sad
resignation. I have, it is true, resolved not to worry about all this,
but how is it possible? Yes, Amenda, if, six months hence, my malady is
beyond cure, then I lay claim to your help. You must leave everything
and come to me. I will travel (my malady interferes least with my
playing and composition, most only in conversation), and you must be my
companion. I am convinced good fortune will not fail me. With whom need
I be afraid of measuring my strength? Since you went away I have written
music of all kinds except operas and