I cannot write much, for my fingers ache from writing out such a
quantity of recitative. I hope you will pray for me that my opera
["Mitridate Re di Ponto"] may go off well, and that we soon may have
a joyful meeting. I kiss your hands a thousand times, and have a great
deal to say to my sister; but what? That is known only to God and
myself. Please God, I hope soon to be able to confide it to her
verbally; in the mean time, I send her a thousand kisses. My compliments
to all kind friends. We have lost our good Martherl, but we hope that by
the mercy of God she is now in a state of blessedness.
26.
Milan, Oct. 27, 1770.