recommended me cold baths, but a more judicious doctor the tepid ones of the Danube, which did wonders for me; my digestion improved, but my hearing remained the same, or in fact rather got worse.  I did indeed pass a miserable winter; I suffered from most dreadful spasms, and sank back into my former condition.  Thus it went on till about a month ago, when I consulted Vering [an army surgeon], under the belief that my maladies required surgical advice; besides, I had every confidence in him.  He succeeded in almost entirely checking the violent diarrhoea, and ordered me the tepid baths of the Danube, into which I pour some strengthening mixture.  He gave me no medicine, except some digestive pills four days ago, and a lotion for my ears.  I certainly do feel better and stronger, but my ears are buzzing and ringing perpetually, day and night.  I can with truth say that my life is very wretched; for nearly two years past I have avoided all society, because I find it impossible to say to people, I am deaf! In any other profession this might be more tolerable, but in mine such a condition is truly frightful.  Besides, what would my enemies say to this?—­and they are not few in number.

To give you some idea of my extraordinary deafness, I must tell you that in the theatre I am obliged to lean close up against the orchestra in order to understand the actors, and when a little way off I hear none of the high notes of instruments or singers.  It is most astonishing that in conversation some people never seem to observe this; being subject to fits of absence, they attribute it to that cause.  I often can scarcely hear a person if speaking low; I can distinguish the tones, but not the words, and yet I feel it intolerable if any one shouts to me.  Heaven alone knows how it is to end!  Vering declares that I shall certainly improve, even if I be not entirely restored.  How often have I cursed my existence!  Plutarch led me to resignation.  I shall strive if possible to set Fate at defiance, although there must be moments in my life when I cannot fail to be the most unhappy of God’s creatures.  I entreat you to say nothing of my affliction to any one, not even to Lorchen [see Nos. 4 and 5].  I confide the secret to you alone, and entreat you some day to correspond with Vering on the subject.  If I continue in the same state, I shall come to you in the ensuing spring, when you must engage a house for me somewhere in the country, amid beautiful scenery, and I shall then become a rustic for a year, which may perhaps effect a change.  Resignation!—­what a miserable refuge! and yet it is my sole remaining one.  You will forgive my thus appealing to your kindly sympathies at a time when your own position is sad enough.  Stephan Breuning is here, and we are together almost every day; it does me so much good to revive old feelings!  He has really become a capital good fellow, not devoid of talent, and his heart, like that of us all, pretty much in the right place. [See No. 13.]