Best of All Wives!
I have not yet received your yellow letter: that must be something good, what with your apologizing for it in advance. Well, now I'll read it with calmness and composure. I can well believe that my pink letter gave you such pleasure; but I must ask you to moderate this somewhat, for certainly you have too favorable an idea of what might be in store for me here: and for that reason I'm telling you right now that I don't hope for anything. I have to answer Uncle Wesendonck's letter one of these days—perhaps tomorrow—and I'll reserve for that further details about the artistic conditions in London. Today I don't want to bother you with such things, but shall rather write about my daily life here, something which I had actually promised you the last time and which I didn't quite get around to. On the whole there isn't really much to be said about it, for I lead a pretty monotonous, melancholy existence the purpose and necessity of which is absolutely beyond my limited intelligence. First of all, I never escape the cold: the abominable London air paralyzes mind and body. Besides, there is the unbearable coal vapor, which cannot be avoided either in the house or in the street. Every moment one has hands like a chimney sweep, and I have to wash once every hour; the laundry also gets dirty very quickly; I cannot, for decency's sake, let people see a shirt which I've worn once—except the laundress, for she sees her profit in it. Most harmful of all, the air and the vapor settle in my chest, which is never clear, so that I've already completely lost my nice little voice. I find it most bearable when I'm at home. Don't think for one moment that my apartment is luxurious: the living room—salon—was too small to accommodate the grand piano, so I have had to devote the so-called salle à manger next to it solely to the piano and the desk; the rooms are together—the doors have been taken out, thus forming a single, moderately spacious room—and are heated by only one fireplace. My bedroom is on the floor above; it is in pretty good shape, and in the large bed you'd have had ample room too. The location of my house is by no means elegant: it is at the upper end of Regent's Park and attracted me only because of its seclusion and cheerfulness. But even here I'm now and then entertained by hurdy-gurdies and brass instruments. In the house I'm otherwise pretty well off, and when I'm not invited out I always eat at home; then I order in the morning what I want to have, beef or veal; sometimes some fish beforehand, Kartoffeln—which they very proudly call potados—or cauliflower, etc. Wine, at 3 shillings, I have in the house lately—Moselle wine, as Rahn advised me through you. My bills are generally considered very reasonable: for meat, butter, bread, coffee, milk, etc., for all that they charge me the cost price, and then a few pence for wood, and eggs and butter for cooking; salt, mustard, etc., I get for nothing. I've already had Klindworth for dinner several times, and both of us had enough. The bill for everything together amounts on the average to between £3½ and £4 a week (including the rent). Small, indispensable purchases are mostly very expensive, and for less than one shilling one gets absolutely nothing. The other day I wanted to do myself a favor, and ate with Klindworth at a French restaurant, which was very expensive and confirmed me in my decision to eat at home, especially since I'm often invited out, to Praeger's, Sainton's, already a couple of times to Benecke's (where, by the way, it is dreadfully boring, so that I've now sworn off for some time!). Usually we stay together until midnight. At last we had a fine day; I promptly went to the Zoo; it is absolutely magnificent, very gorgeous, beautiful animals, very neatly kept, pretty garden, etc. During the fair season the visit to this garden will certainly be my main pleasure. I don't like to go to town at all: their Parliament building, etc., can go to blazes. The parks are always the best. I have not yet gone to any other amusements: no theater has so far attracted me. There are as many concerts here as sand on the seashore, but no English concert will soon find me in the audience again! How these people make music defies description. But more about that some other time.
Do you remember the young Pole, Heimberger? He came up a few days ago to say goodbye: he's going to Australia as leader of a band of Tyrolean singers and musicians with whom he has been roaming around in England for quite a while, and he hopes that in two years he can make enough money there to come back and really to be able to study for himself. Brendel recommended a Dr. Althaus to me, who has been living here for some time: I had to accept an invitation to his house for Saturday. By the way, still no Lord or Lady. They don't come to me. Don't worry about that! We are still poor riff-raff. As for the rest, I'm holding out here like a lamb to be sacrificed: inside of me there isn't a glimmer of hope about London. I'm not made for it; it will go on this way for the remaining six concerts without the least result. Good, if I hold out (only for decency's sake); but if it depended on my judgment I'd leave tomorrow. I can't complete my work here either, and shall probably bring a good part of it up to the Seelisberg. This is no place for me. I am sorry not to be able to write to you about this more hopefully: console yourself with the thought that I'm calm and determined to finish this up as well as possible. The next concert is not until a week from Monday: I still don't know what will be played, but that makes no difference at all to me. I'll always give a few people pleasure; Publikus will clap just as much as he claps at all the other miserable concerts; the newspapers will continue their efforts to get rid of me; here and there somebody will condescend, out of shame, to find this or that not so bad; the secretary of the Philharmonic will officially praise me in the publications at his disposal—and finally—I'll have one pleasure anyway; namely, to pack my bag and return to my beloved Switzerland, which I cannot today imagine ever leaving again to come back here. So the matter will come out all right at any rate, and that puts me in a good humor. Then at home I'll be as happy as the dog who is through with his beating: then you'll rub my back. Yes, dear Muzius! Get used to looking at the thing that way, and for God's sake don't build up any false hopes: I'll save a little money, and that's all! Take good care of the house and animals, and, above all, take good care of yourself, so that I'll find everything in good order, especially you. Then we'll chat about this London dream. Keep really well, or rather: get really well so that you'll continue to stick with me through sorrow, misery, the lean and good times, as you've stuck with me so far; then we'll console ourselves and think—this, then, is our lot! Farewell now, good old Mienel, and keep your love for me!
Liszt has written to me in a very calm and friendly tone, which was very comforting to me indeed. Hülsen, so Alwine writes, wants to do everything possible to get me the advance payment: he should send the money to Sulzer; if it works out, things will be all right for the time being. I haven't read a newspaper since Zurich. Remember me to my friends: tomorrow I intend to write to Wesendonck.
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 147