Your letter, my dear friend, has rejoiced me more than I can say. It was both unexpected and unhoped for; and it gives me such strong evidence of your cheerful and patient courage, that no better news could have come to me, and certainly nothing more fitted to raise my own spirits and encourage me. My health is not of the best, and though physically I appear sufficiently robust, my nervous system is in a very depressed state, gradually growing worse — the result of my self-abandonment to that feverish and excessive sensitiveness, in virtue of which I am the artistic being that I am. The nerves of my brain especially have been so worked upon by this constant dwelling in a world of imagination, with no reality to balance it, that now I am only able to work at long intervals and with frequent breaks, otherwise I should certainly fall into a state of constant and protracted suffering. I was in that condition when your letter reached me; its contents, taken in connection with your situation, formed a striking contrast to my situation and to my state of mind. It confirmed the feeling I have often had before, that a state of semi-liberty is more humiliating and oppressive than complete bondage; but I fear it would not be quite easy to make clear to you what I mean.
My published writings testify to my want of freedom as an artist; the lash of compulsion alone forced me to become an author, and nothing was further from my thoughts than to write "Books." Had it been otherwise, the chances are you would not have had cause to complain so much of my style. But the time for literary work is past with me; to have gone on with it would have killed me. On the other hand, I have embarked on a great artistic undertaking, namely, the completion of a poem consisting of three dramas with a separate prologue, which I shall then set to music, and which — God knows when, where and how — I mean some day to have put on the stage. The whole poem will be called The Ring of the Nibelung; the prologue, The Theft of the Rhine-gold; the first part of the drama will be The Walküre; the second part, Young Siegfried; and the third part, Siegfried's Death. The three dramas are completed; but I have still to put the prologue into verse. By the end of this year, I hope to be able to submit the printed poem to my friends. The working-out of the whole subject (in my present state of health) will, of course, need a great deal of time; as to the performance, that must be relegated to a nebulous "future." With regard to the scheme, you will receive full information in the very detailed Communication to my Friends, in which I treat of my own artistic development. This Communication forms the preface to my three "opera poems" — The Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser, and Lohengrin. The book appeared at the beginning of this year, and I gave orders for a copy to be sent to you: probably you were forbidden to see it; but should this not be the case, let me know, and I shall see that the matter is put right.
Instead of the pianoforte score of Lohengrin, which you expected from Härtel, I am sending the full score of the opera, which Härtel has just brought out, to your dear wife; she will ascertain if she may forward it to you. I am sure you will find the full score the more satisfying of the two. I am also sending you some shorter papers on questions of art, which I have written at different times as the occasion demanded. The most recent was a book of instructions for the performance of my Tannhäuser. For you must know that at the present moment a considerable number of German theatres are preparing to bring it out; even the Berlin Court theatre is making arrangements for its performance, and I anticipate that ere long this opera will have been given in all our theatres. Unfortunately, this prospect can no longer give me pleasure — in every respect it comes too late; and besides, I know that the work will never be performed as I meant that it should be. Possibly performers and public may appreciate the softer, more emotional parts of the work; but they will never realise the energy of passion that underlies it. I also greatly doubt whether this unexpected and growing fame will pave the way for a performance at a future day of my Nibelung dramas; for, in my opinion, the possibility of such a performance depends on conditions quite alien to the prevailing ideas on life and art. The most painful thing to me — in spite of apparent success — is to recognise that I owe the greater part of this success to a misunderstanding of the true meaning of my work; on this subject I have no further illusions.
If you are once more allowed to occupy your time with literature, let me know whether I may send you books from time to time. I am sure you would find Feuerbach's writings most stimulating. I should also like to introduce you to a poet who has lately struck me as being the greatest of all poets — I mean the Persian poet, Hafiz, of whose writings we now possess an admirable German translation by Daumer. Truly, his poems have struck terror into my soul. We, with our pompous European culture and intellectuality, must stand abashed in the presence of this product of Oriental genius, stamped with such unerring mastery, such lofty serenity. I feel sure that you would share my astonishment. To my mind, the only merit of recent European development is to be sought in a kind of universal disintegration; whereas in the work of this Oriental I recognise a precocious striving after individualism.
I mean shortly to write to your dear wife a long letter; how I wish that I could say anything to comfort and cheer her. My own affairs are shaping themselves pleasantly enough, and I am thankful to be relieved from pressing anxiety as to the more immediate necessities of life: but I am very lonely; I miss sympathetic surroundings, and more than ever I am painfully conscious that what in me is exceptional and peculiar acts like a curse, separating me from my kind, and cutting me off from the ordinary enjoyment of life. A prisoner would not understand why I so constantly am downcast and longing for death; and yet I feel it so strongly, and understand so clearly whence it comes. But enough on this subject. You will laugh at me, and indeed I cannot dispute your right to do so. One thing I long for, and that is, that you may receive permission to write to me often; if you can hold out that hope, you will indeed give me a great pleasure. Farewell, and may you go on bearing up in your misfortune as bravely as hitherto. This is the earnest wish of your
Affectionate friend,
Richard Wagner.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to August Roeckel, trans. Eleanor C. Sellar, with an introductory essay by Houston Stewart Chamberlain (J. W. Arrowsmith, 1897), No. 2