I have finally got round to writing to you, my dearest Franz! I have just come through a very bad period, but one which now seems as though it could well make way for a much more agreeable state. 10 days ago we moved into the little country house that you know about, near the Wesendoncks’ villa, and for that I have to thank the truly sympathetic interest that these friends of ours have shown in me. But I first had to contend with another round of affliction; furnishing the little house - which, I must say, has turned out to be very nice and entirely suited to my needs - took a lot of time, so that we were under pressure to move out of our old rooms before there was any possibility of our being able to move into the new house. In addition, my wife was ill, so that I kept having to stop her from interfering, and, instead, had to take upon myself, single-handedly and alone, the whole effortful burden of moving. For ten days we lived in an hotel, and when we finally moved in here, the weather was so dreadful and so cold that it was really only the thought of our definitive move that enabled me to remain even-tempered. But that is now all in the past; the whole house has been laid out and furnished to meet our long-term wishes and requirements; everything is in the place it will occupy until my death. And the bed on which I shall one day breathe my last has been set up on the very spot where I shall eventually be carried out. My work-room has been laid out with all my well-known pedantry and need for elegant comfort; the desk is next to the large window with a splendid view over the lake and the Alps; peace and tranquillity surround me. A pretty and already very well-kept garden offers me space for short walks and little resting-places, and it will provide my wife with a most agreeable way of occupying her time and distracting her from worrying about me; in particular, there is quite a large vegetable garden which will lay claim to her most tender cares. You see, I have acquired a most charming spot where I can live in seclusion, and when I reflect upon how long I have been demanding such a place and how difficult it had become to find even the merest prospect of acquiring it, I feel compelled to acknowledge this good fellow Wesendonck as one of my greatest benefactors. By way of compensation, his wife gave birth to another son 3 weeks ago, who is said to boast a high forehead, and whom I have provisionally called the youngest Siegfried. The Wesendoncks hope to be able to move into residence early in July; their proximity promises to be both welcome and agreeable. - Well then, that’s settled! - I hope shortly to be able to resume my long-interrupted work, and at all events I shall not leave my charming refuge (not even for the odd excursion) until Siegfried has sorted out his relationship with Brünnhild. So far I have finished only the first act; but it is all cut and dried, a great success, and more beautiful than all the rest: even I was astonished at my ability to bring it off; for ever since we were last together, I have again come to think of myself as an appallingly bungling musician. But I have been able to win back my self-confidence by degrees; together with one of the singers from the theatre here, whom you heard in the Jewess, I went through the last great scene from the Valkyrie; Kirchner accompanied us; I scored a direct hit, and this scene, which caused you such vexation, completely fulfilled all the hopes that I had placed in it. We went over it three times at home, and I am now completely satisfied. The problem is that everything about this scene is so fine, so deep, and so gentle that it requires a conscious rendition of the greatest delicacy and perfection to make its meaning clear; but if this succeeds, I have no doubt what impression it will make. But anything like this is bound of course to hover on the brink of extreme tedium if the audience is not made to feel the most perfect, solemn and conscious composure; - to rattle through the piece, as we attempted briefly to do, is simply not possible; in my own case, at least, all aptitude and intelligence desert me - as though instinctively; I become totally mindless. But I have now settled this matter to my own satisfaction, and when - one day - you hear Siegfried’s smelting and forging songs, you will discover something new. But it is a crying shame that I cannot play it over to myself; and I have no real hopes that your next visit will be any better; there is always so much for us to do that we can really only do things in a hurry, and that always works to my disadvantage; I really only exist when I can concentrate completely; the slightest distraction is the death of me. -[...]
I am also most grateful to you for Lohengrin! It now leads such a shadowy existence for me, I scarcely know what to make of it any longer; I no longer know it. You arrange these things on your own and never seem to think that I might like to have been present myself. But I respect the secretive silence which my distinguished, nay my most distinguished patrons are so conscientiously observing on the critical question of my return to Germany, and I shall be content simply to despise them. The Grand Duke should not imagine that I am writing my Nibelungs for him, so that he can claim all the glory for himself, when, given half a chance, he would allow the person who did all the work to waste away without a single thought. There are other ways for me to achieve my aim than through this weak-willed prince who, in the course of recent years, has given me sufficient reason to thank him for precisely nothing. - Well, that is by the way! - But, joking apart! the Emperor of Brazil has just sent me an invitation to visit him in Rio Janeiro; I am to be given everything I could possibly need there. And so - if not Weimar, then Rio!!
[...]
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 199