Dear, good Amalie. After leaving you yesterday my condition grew worse and from last night till now I have not left my bed, I wanted to send you word yesterday but thought it would look as if I wanted to appear important in your eyes, so I refrained. What dream of yours is this that you are nothing to me, we will talk about that by word of mouth, dear Amalie; I have always wished only that my presence might bring you rest and peace, and that you would have confidence in me; I hope to be better to-morrow and that we may spend the few hours which remain of your sojourn in the enjoyment of nature to our mutual uplift and enlivenment. Good night, dear Amalie, many thanks for your kind thought of your friend Beethoven. I will look through Tiedge. I only wish to report that the tyrant is ~slavishly~ chained to his bed. So it is! I shall be glad if I get along with the loss of to-day. My promenade yesterday at sun-up in the woods, where it was very misty, has increased my indisposition and probably delayed my improvement. Busy yourself meanwhile with Russians, Lapps, Samoyeds, etc., and do not sing too often the song, “Es lebe hoch!” Your friend Beethoven. I am already better. If you think it ~proper~ to come to me alone you can give me a great pleasure, but if you think it ~improper~ you know how I honor the liberty of all people, and no matter how you act in this and all other cases, according to your principles or caprice, you will always find me kind and Your friend Beethoven. I cannot yet say anything definite about myself, sometimes I feel better and next things appear to be in the old rut, or to be preparing a long sickness for me. If I could give expression to my thoughts concerning my sickness as definitely as I can express my thoughts in music, I should soon help myself. To-day too, I must keep to my bed. Farewell, and rejoice in your good health, dear Amalie. Your friend Beethoven. The sickness does not seem to increase exactly, but still to crawl onward, so no standstill! this is all that I can tell you about it. I must give up the thought of seeing you at home, mayhap your Samoyeds will relieve you of their journey to the Polar regions, if so come to Beethoven. Thank you for all the things which you think good for my body, the necessities have been cared for--also my illness seems less obstinate. I deeply sympathize with you in the sorrow which must come to you because of the sickness of your mother. You know that I like to see you, but I cannot receive you otherwise than lying in bed. I may be able to get up to-morrow.--Farewell, dear Amalie-- Your somewhat weak Beethoven. (In Amalie Sebald’s handwriting): My tyrant commands an account--here it is: A fowl 1 fl. V. S. The soup 9 kr.