My dear Minna!
Here I am once more, sitting in that Paris where we arrived as long as ten years ago and eked out a joyless life in heavy worries day by day. My feelings are indescribable. The long trip, the fearful heat, past memories, the present and the future—everything oppresses me. Already hating all cities, how could I be impressed by Paris in any favorable way? I expected to be undisturbed in the comparatively quiet quarter, but I find it as noisy here as in the most crowded districts. And the heat, the agitation and restlessness make my head spin, for I have not had any news from you for such a long time! My courage regained in Switzerland is almost gone, and I have no other longing than to be united again with you, and the familiar remains of our old belongings, in a small quiet place. I want to work and create, write poetry, compose, whatever the world may demand from me—but to have to run and rush about this way, to plunge into that turmoil—why must it be? I would have preferred to leave it to others who like noise and knocking around! You see, my dear wife, Paris is no place of joy and desire for me. In Switzerland with its magnificent, invigorating landscape, in a friendly small town with the company of a number of friends, there I could better hold to the thought of being happy with you! But there is still one great task which lies before me: when this is done, I shall have gained something for the rest of my life, for then people will come to me and I shall no longer need to seek them; this is the advantage of an established success. So, courage! Courage! It can't be helped! Forward!
The only thing that could now refresh my soul would be some good news from you! It was stupid of me to write you from Zürich that you ought to write quickly to Paris so that I could find a letter here on my arrival. I did not consider the fact that I would be here so much sooner! All the same, I am hoping every day for a letter: God grant that you write me in good spirits and health. Nothing else bothers me. Before sending this letter I'll wait for the expected one from you so that I may answer it along with this. Until then I shall only tell you what has happened to me from Zürich until now. Well, on Wednesday night—as I wrote—I left Zürich. There my friends warmly urged that if things should not go in every way according to my wish, I should be sure to return to Zürich with my wife; board and lodging and everything else would be provided, and no one would expect anything of me except to work to my heart's content. These were not empty words—that I know! So I left and arrived in Basel on Thursday morning; in order to go directly to Paris I would have had to wait there another day, so I preferred to go by train to Strassburg. From Strassburg I left for Paris by mail coach at five o'clock in the evening—although I had to pay 83 frs.; but I was ready to pay any price, after so long a journey, to get quickly and without delay to my intended goal. In thirty-six hours I was in Paris—I got there Saturday morning at five o'clock. Right away I began to run around in search of an apartment in the quarter where I would feel at home beyond the boulevards. I believed they would be cheaper by now, but God knows what the reason is! I ran from one apartment hotel to another, and 100 or 80 francs was the least they wanted; until after a frightful perspiring and climbing of stairs I found one on rue Notre-Dame de Lorette No. 11, second floor, a room with a small bedchamber at 60 francs a month, where I decided to stay. At any rate I shall soon have to go to London; and on my return, later, I'll find something more suitable and possibly cheap too. Next I looked up Belloni, Liszt's secretary: he was informed about everything, and since he is well acquainted with all the conditions here I shall follow his guidance entirely, as Liszt also wanted it. But what is to be done here can be only preliminary. My goal probably cannot be attained until the autumn, at the beginning of the Paris season. My next concern is to make myself well known through the papers and journals and to take a firm stand against the numberless intrigues to which I shall be exposed, the threads of which are in Meyerbeer's hands. After Liszt's article on Tannhäuser appeared here, Meyerbeer must have marked its intent. When I dropped into Schlesinger's music shop and was received in very friendly fashion, Meyerbeer was also there but by chance hidden behind an office screen; he remained there when he heard me talking, as if he were startled at my presence, and as if a bad conscience because of his Berlin intrigues kept him there. When I finally learned that he was there, I stepped behind the screen in a very casual and friendly manner and led him forth: he was embarrassed and dull, and I know enough to be wary of him.
The most important thing now is that I myself come out with a big article, giving my views on the theater in general and its future, and also on my own position as an artist, in the most striking and convincing way possible: as for those who can't work among such people by bribery, they must rely on their talent to make themselves respected. I think that my intelligence will set things right, and if I tackle the thing from the right angle I shall be able to accomplish something great here. I already feel strength in myself for this. It is only that I must take the first disgusting steps which don't suit my nature at all. Today I have already made many visits with Belloni. In a week—I think—my great article should appear in one of the leading papers. I can't tell you much yet about conditions here; in any event I must soon leave for London, where I can now more quickly achieve my goal, since it is the season there at present and there is even a German opera company. The principal concerts are also in full swing. It was with a pang that I saw Kietz and Anders again: they have both stayed still just where they were; they made an almost specter-like impression on me, and I felt as if I myself were just where I was ten years ago. I can't tell you much about them. When I saw Kietz I asked him about the young Heine; he knew nothing about him. Then the bell rang and Wilhelm came in. He is working hard here. Otherwise I didn't get to see anybody from Dresden, except in Zürich, where I met Klepperbein (but only for a moment). I no longer know anything about conditions in Germany. To be frank, I don't much care. All I care about is you and seeing you again soon. If I only could get some news from you!!
Tuesday, 5th of June. No news! Perhaps you will wait to answer my Zürich letter, in which case there will be no letter for me for at least a few days. Oh, what torment! I can't bear letting a letter which I have started to you lie so long in my desk; I must at least mail it, for then I feel as if I had spoken aloud to you, and even this makes me content. Well, a few more words to wind up, and then to the post office.
Yesterday I lived through another very dismal hot day. After having run about a good deal with Belloni in the morning and having written you, I went to see Franck and Vieweg in the store which formerly belonged to my brother-in-law. Franck delighted me by his alertness. Then I dined alone, went home again, and took a promenade in the evening after ten o'clock out to the Barrière with the young Heine to cool off. You can't take a walk before ten or twelve o'clock at night: earlier the heat wouldn't permit it. Alas, my dear, dear wife! These are bleak, dreary days. God, if they were only passed, and if I could only get started in my proper activity! Only the greatest activity can give me comfort, while I am still without good news from you. Oh, write to me much and often! Without knowing anything about you, it seems ridiculous to keep asking about one thing or another; at least I shall refrain in view of the awful burdens about to be loaded on you.
Across the street there is a parrot in the window which is very like our Papo; besides, he makes similar tones and whistlings: you may imagine how this makes me feel! There is nothing else in my head but the thought of suddenly coming to you again. But all this is like babbling into thin air, for, alas, I know nothing about how this or that is going with you. At one moment I try to reassure myself; in the next I begin to worry, especially about your health. Oh, comfort me, if only for the sake of doing me some good. No sooner do I close my eyes, than my hot blood conjures up pictures and dreams which make sleep a torture.
There is only one memory I rejoice in: that we have seen each other again. In spite of all the pain and argumentations, I have, after all, renewed my firm conviction that you love me dearly, even though your love is evident mainly when you worry about me. I do bring you worries: that is true! But forgive me, be kind to me and friendly; in this you can give me happiness even from a distance.
Farewell my old faithful heart! Have compassion on me, but be proud toward strangers. Greetings to Cäcilie and Eduard, with whom I hope you will be now. Thank them for their sympathy with me! Farewell and give early good news to your
Richard
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 74