Oh, Kietz!
If I had turned back in Paris this last time, it would have been quite sensible: now I have to pay with terrible patience for the indiscretion of having let myself be tempted again. When I first arrived in London, I felt that I would have nothing to do here. My entire activity is limited to the direction of the eight concerts of which the fourth takes place tomorrow; otherwise I haven't the least thing to occupy me. The concerts attract considerable attention, and the performances are as good as possible considering the short time for rehearsals: even my music to Lohengrin, of which I had to perform several excerpts in the second concert, met with success. But all this could be a true success only if I wanted to exploit it with all the means necessary here, or—to be more specific—if I could have a purpose here. But of that there can be no question whatever: to accept an engagement here as symphony and oratorio conductor and composer is far from my mind, now or at any other time. Outside of that there's nothing for me to do, and even a good German opera is completely out of the question. Thus the only thing left for me is to stick to the position—actually quite unsuitable for me—of a symphony conductor to the end. Then I'll see whether I'll have a few francs left with which to pay at least a part of the debt which originally was to have been paid off with this money; but it will turn out to be very little because of the enormously high taxes here and because I need much more than I first believed. Besides, Mr. Albert Franck has located me here too and has reminded me in no uncertain terms to pay my debt: that's what you get out of it! Every time I earn 1 franc I must pay 10 of them!
My acquaintances here are the following: 1. Praeger, a poor German lesson-giver! 2. Lüders, the same. 3. Sainton, first violinist with the orchestra. 4. Klindworth, a pupil of Liszt who is only now looking for pupils, but cannot find any yet. Otherwise I've really met no one: shall I send one of them to you to increase your fame and fortune? The press usually attacks me à cause de Mendelssohn and the other Jews who wish me eternal life. I'd have to do strange things in order to help you through the press here! Or through the German press? Oh, you crazy fellow! Of all people, I who never bother with the rabble of the press and have insulted every one of them! Be sensible and don't take me for something which I'm not. It seems you have no idea of the loneliness in which I live!!!! Believe me that I'm sincerely happy about your successes, more than about my own: for yours can be useful to you—a thing which in my case can be true only in a very limited sense. I shall always be burdened with an extremely sad existence, I hope only as long as my hopeless artistic productivity keeps me clinging to life again and yet again—only to torment me.
I found a true ray of light in your letter with the many good jokes about my appearance before the English: alas, how good it is to laugh again! I received your letter when I came home from the last concert with Praeger and Lüders: I read it to them immediately. That night, at the beginning of the concert, was the first time that I kept my gloves on to conduct: I did that—out of malice—for a Mendelssohn symphony, a very bad symphony; but I took them off for the Euryanthe Overture. Your advice especially made a very telling impression on us. Otherwise I am so put out of humor by my unsuitable position here that I don't even have any inclination for the work I brought along, which progresses very slowly: I am deeply disgusted with everything here, and I am more lonely than ever before. Greet Lindemann for me: tell him I'm not at all well. I only regret that his kind willingness to help me will never come to anything if we cannot live together for some time. Now I'm taking pills to counteract the English diet. Many thanks for your letter! In two months I'll see you again for a short time! Farewell and remain faithful to your London
Symphony Conductor
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 149