(To Lichnovsky, 21 Sept., 1814). THE HEILIGENSTADT WILL.[83] For my brothers CARL and ---- BEETHOVEN. O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn or cynical, how unjust are ye towards me! You do not know the secret cause of my seeming so. From childhood onward, my heart and mind prompted me to be kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great deeds. But only think that during the last six years I have been in a wretched condition, rendered worse by unintelligent physicians. Deceived from year to year with hopes of improvement, and then finally forced to the prospect of _lasting infirmity_ (which may last for years, or even be totally incurable). Born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptive of the diversions of society, I had soon to retire from the world, to live a solitary life. At times, even, I endeavoured to forget all this, but how harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience of my bad hearing. Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: "Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf." Alas! how could I declare the weakness of a _sense_ which in me _ought to be_ more acute than in others--a sense which _formerly_ I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy, or ever have enjoyed; no, I cannot do it. Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would willingly mix with you. My misfortune pains me doubly, in that I am certain to be misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in the society of my fellow creatures, no refined conversations, no interchange of thought. Almost alone, and only mixing in society when absolutely necessary, I am compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed--for so it was during these past six months which I spent in the country. Ordered by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as possible, he almost fell in with my present frame of mind, although many a time I was carried away by my sociable inclinations. But how humiliating was it, when some one standing close to me heard a distant flute, and I heard _nothing_, or a _shepherd singing_, and again I heard nothing. Such incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on the point of putting an end to my life--_art_ alone restrained my hand. Oh! it seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life, wretched indeed, with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change can throw me from the best into the worst state. _Patience_, I am told, I must choose as my guide. I have done so--lasting, I hope, will be my resolution to bear up until it pleases the inexorable Parcae to break the thread. Forced, already in my 28th year,[84] to become a philosopher it is not easy; for an artist more difficult than for any one else. O Divine Being, Thou Who lookest down