My Dear, Kind Amenda!
The bearer of this letter, Count Keyserling, who is a friend of yours, has called on me and has thus reminded me of you. He told me that you were leading a happy life and that you had children. Neither of these happinesses has been my portion. It would take too long to write to you about this. Some other time, if you write to me again, I will tell you more about it – A thousand times I recall you to mind and your patriarchal simplicity. How often have I longed to have people like yourself around me – But for my own good or possibly for that of other people Fate persists in refusing to fulfil my wishes in this respect. I may say that I live almost entirely alone in this, the largest, city of Germany, since I must live practically cut off from all the people whom I love or could love – What kind of standing has music in your country? Have you already heard in Courland about my great works? I call them great – but compared with the works of the All-highest all human works are small – All good wishes, my dear kind A[menda], and think sometimes
of your friend
Ludwig van Beethoven