Dear Friend,
A short time ago I at length received long-expected news of you. From your letter I gathered that some books which I despatched for you had not yet reached you; so I applied to your excellent wife, but owing to her being ill it was some weeks before she could reply to me, and ever since then I have been deeply engaged in absorbing work. From all these causes there has been some delay in my answer, for which you must pardon me: hence, too, this feeble preface to my present letter.
I sent my new poem, The Nibelung's Ring (of which only a few copies are printed for private circulation among my intimate friends and acquaintances), in February of this year to Weimar, in order that your wife might forward it to you. You do not mention it; but your wife maintains that the copy was sent to Waldheim: should it not yet have reached you, the omission must be due to causes which would make the despatch of a second copy quite useless. Therefore I think it better to trouble you once more in the matter: you might make definite enquiries. In the event of the book having been lost, let me know at once, as in that case a second shall be forthwith sent to Waldheim. In the meantime, and till I hear from you that you have read the book, further discussion of it is useless.
I had also destined for you at the beginning of last year my Three Opera Poems, together with a Communication to my Friends (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel), but from your letter I gather that the book never reached you; I therefore send it to your wife, in order that she may convey it to you. I have put up with it two other works that you expressed a wish to have, Hafiz (in two volumes) and Feuerbach's Lectures on the Nature of Religion.
It seems to me, and I rejoice to think it, that you are in the mood and frame of mind when these books will be a real refreshment to you. I trust that you are well, and that you have succeeded in preserving that disposition of mind which allows one to be solaced by the inspiring influences of the Beautiful, even though doomed to the forced resignation of a captive. But in this respect you are, perhaps, no worse off at the present moment than the rest of us. As things are just now, the really Beautiful can only exist for us in a theoretical vision; that it could exist, that it will some day actually exist, and be apprehended and enjoyed by beings absolutely like unto ourselves in feeling — that thought alone can comfort us, as it must comfort you. Truly, this is our only consolation; and in sympathy with a future generation, we already experience a quickened sense of well-being and gain. Therefore I do not hesitate about sending you Hafiz.
Feuerbach's book is to a certain extent a résumé of all that he has hitherto done in the field of philosophy. It is not one of his really celebrated works, such as The Essence of Christianity, or Thoughts upon Death and Immortality, but it is a short-cut to a complete knowledge of his mental development, and of the latest results of his speculations. I should be glad to think of you as strengthened and encouraged by contact with his clear, vigorous mind.
I also enclose a programme of some musical performances which I organised recently at Zurich; they will interest you. But you will wonder why I brought myself to consent to a concert performance of such a fragmentary selection from my operas. The matter is easily explained. In the first place I had an intense longing to hear something out of Lohengrin, more especially the orchestral prelude. In order to get together a sufficiently large orchestra for the performance, it was necessary to arrange for a regular concert, therefore I added other selections. The formation of this orchestra (consisting of about 70 musicians) cost not less than 9,000 francs, which sum, however, when I made my project known, was secured by guarantees. Any one who knows Zurich and its excellent bourgeois and Philistine community cannot fail to be astounded by this fact; and I confess that this proof of exceptional trust and unwonted affection touched me very deeply. The performances were perfect; I had brought the best musicians all the way from Germany, and the result was one of great and increasing artistic significance for Switzerland. For I do not doubt that — when I am ready for it — means will be provided here for an adequate performance, according to my own ideas, of my dramatic works. To bring this about it will be necessary that I should devote myself for some years exclusively to the education of a company such as I require. When that is achieved I shall have all my operas, above all my Nibelungen drama, performed during a whole year in a theatre specially erected for the purpose, built of light materials, but adapted to the true needs of dramatic representation. I shall then have attained, if not my ideal, at least all that mortal man can aspire to. In the meantime I must save my strength and health — often very feeble — in order to accomplish the music of my Nibelung drama. This will take me at least three or four years.
The performances on different stages in Germany of my Tannhäuser, and shortly of my Lohengrin, have no interest whatever for me; I know that for the most part they leave my intention and meaning unexpressed, and that they in no essential way rise above the level of ordinary operatic performances. Although from time to time I make surprising discoveries, and am especially astonished by the effects produced in smaller theatres by these operas, thanks to the enthusiastic efforts of young conductors; yet, take it all in all, and in view of the general deplorable state of things, I cannot feel other than cold and unmoved; and I confess that the spread of my works is only valuable to me in regard to material advantages. Thanks to the improvement in these matters, my position has become much more tolerable, and especially do I enjoy the privilege of having no longer to work absolutely with a view to money. No matter what I undertake here, I decline to be paid for it (which indeed I should do even if I were entirely destitute of means; Art-producing for the sake of mere money is the one thing that would alienate me from Art, as indeed it is the cause of the confusion existing in so many minds on the truer nature of Art and all its works). Thus I might say that my life is pleasant enough were I only different to what I am. As it is, not only do I feel the degradation of the general condition of things more keenly than others do; but as regards my own personal life, it is only in the last few years that I have realised — alas! too late — that I have never rightly lived. But on this subject I will not trouble you; such complaints were not meant for your ears. But this much I must say to you: my art is becoming more and more like the song of a captive nightingale haunted by illusions and longings, and it would suddenly lose all meaning if I were allowed to grasp at the realities of life. Yes, where life ends, Art begins. In youth we turn to Art, we know not how or why; and only when we have gone through with Art and come out on the other side, we learn to our cost that we have missed Life itself. If I could deceive myself with fresh illusions, all would be well; if it were in me to be proud and vain, how happy might I not be at this moment. My fame is ever on the increase; I am looked upon as an unheard-of phenomenon, impossible to classify; pamphlets and magazine articles innumerable are written about me; misapprehension and admiration reciprocally work each other up. How unspeakably indifferent I remain to it all! Nothing would induce me to return for a moment to quill-driving, I am so discouraged by constant misapprehension of my writings, and disheartened by realising that the inner meaning of my whole being and of my views remains a closed book. One thing alone could avail to comfort me. Not only am I admired, I am also beloved — where criticism ceases, love steps in, and many hearts have been brought closer to me. But this very sympathy remains a thing apart, aloof from me; it only touches my life indirectly, and that life having taken the bend it has, I can only contemplate this wealth of love as from a great distance. If I could become a thorough egoist it would be better for me; but there is no help for it, and, like you, I feel it is only by resignation that I can be true to myself.
Dear friend, I have been speaking to you about myself, and there are still many things of all kinds that I should like to tell you, but I cannot unload all my freight at once. I do wish that you could obtain leave to write to me more often; frequent communication is needed to keep up a flow, which otherwise gets stopped up by a certain restraint. I cannot write to you about yourself, for you alone can enlighten me and give me the key to your present existence; I do not even venture to tell you my opinion of yourself and of your position. What I think of you and feel towards you I must keep to myself, otherwise I should incur the suspicion of wishing to make you vain. All that I can say to you about yourself is, that I should seem to myself very absurd if I were to attempt to give you advice; but if you can suggest any way in which the advice or counsel of a true friend could be of use to you, you would confer a happiness on me. If you think of anything let me know! I hope that my packet of books will reach you; I am with you in spirit while you read them. Let me know whether you have received the Ring of the Nibelung, and, if not, whether you will be allowed to have it. It is the climax of my present artistic achievement. Answer this as soon as possible. And now, farewell for the present. If you are not able to write at an early date, let me know through your wife whether you will be allowed to receive another letter from me. I shall then take up the thread of much that I have left untold, as I have a great dislike to sitting down more than once to a letter, and at present my brain is quite dried up. Farewell. Keep up your courage and your patience — we none of us can pull through without the one and the other.
Your
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. 3