Just out of bed.
Morning confession.
Oh no! no! it is not De Sanctis that I hate but myself for repeatedly finding my poor heart guilty of such weakness! - Shall I offer as an excuse my ill health and the sensitivity and irritability that it fosters in me? Let us see what happens. Two days ago at noon an angel came to me, blessed and refreshed me; this made me feel so much better, and cheered me so much that in the evening I felt a sincere need to be among friends, in order that they might be allowed to share my inner happiness: I know I would have been most amiable and friendly. I then heard that no one in your house had dared hand you my letter, since De Sanctis was with you. Your husband was of the same opinion. I waited in vain, and finally had the pleasure of receiving Herr v. Marschall, who settled down here for the evening and, with every word he spoke, filled me with a terrible hatred of all the De Sanctises in the world. The lucky man - he kept her away from me! And by means of what gift? Simply by dint of her patience. I could not hold it against him for being so much in earnest; for everyone who has dealings with you is most certainly in earnest! I, too, am in earnest! to the point of tormenting you! But why does she encourage this burdensome pedant? What does she care about Italian? Well, I soon found the answer to that. But the better I understood the reason why, the more annoyed I became with that tiresome man; in my dreams I confused him with Marshall, and from this confusion there emerged a figure in whom I recognized all the misery that the world has in store for me. - And so it went on throughout the night. In the morning I regained my senses, and was able to pray to my angel from the very depths of my heart; and this prayer is love! Love! My soul rejoices in this love, which is the well-spring of my redemption. Then the day came, with its miserable weather, the pleasures of your garden were denied me; nor could I get on with my work. And so the whole of my day was a struggle between ill-humour and my longing to be with you; and whenever I yearned with all my heart to be with you, our tedious pedant kept on coming between us and stealing you from me, and I could not help admitting to myself that I hated him. Oh, what a wretch I am! I had to tell you; there was no alternative. But it was very petty of me, and I deserve to be properly punished. What is my punishment to be? - I shall come to tea next Monday after your lesson: I shall spend the entire evening being utterly charming to De Sanctis, and shall speak French in a manner that will be a joy to hear. -
What was that foolish quarrel about Göthe yesterday? That Göthe can be adapted by philistines to suit the world rests ultimately upon a misunderstanding of the poet; but the fact that such a misunderstanding was possible makes me somewhat wary of him, and especially of his interpreters and apologists. Well, as you know, I accepted all of this yesterday, including your great delight in Faust; but finally having to listen to people saying time after time that Faust was the most significant human type ever created by a poet, this - (very foolishly!) - made me angry. I cannot allow my friends to delude themselves on this point. Faust’s despair about the world rests initially either upon his knowledge of the world, — in which case he is to be pitied, following his transformation, for rushing headlong into the world he despises and for living it up, and he is, in my view, one of those people who despise their fellow men while at the same time knowing of no other ambition throughout their lives than to delude others and enjoy their admiration; - or else, and this is how it is, Faust is simply a scholar with fanciful ideas who has yet to experience the real world, in which case he is simply cripplingly immature, and we may regard it as a good thing that he is sent out into the world in order to learn what he can from it. But it would have been even better if he really had learned all that there was to learn, and learned it, moreover, at the first, wonderful, opportunity, through Gretchen’s love. But, ah, how happy the poet is when he has removed Faust from the soulful depths of this love and allowed him to wake up one fine morning with not a trace of the whole affair to cloud his memory, so that the real world, the world of classical art, the practical world of industry can now be acted out before his highly objective gaze in the greatest possible comfort. As a result I can regard this Faust really only as a missed opportunity; and the opportunity that has been missed is nothing less than the unique chance of salvation and redemption. This is something that the grey-haired sinner feels for himself in the end, when he seeks, somewhat obviously, to make good his earlier omission in the final tableau, - so extraneous, after death, when it no longer embarrasses him but where it can only be an agreeable experience to let the angel draw him to its breast and no doubt waken him to a new life. - Well, I thoroughly approve of all this, and Göthe is certainly no less great as a poet, since he always remains true to life, indeed, he cannot be otherwise; people may after all call it objective if the individual never succeeds in absorbing the object, i.e. the world (which can be achieved only by the most active fellow-suffering), but instead simply imagines the object, and loses himself in it by contemplating and perceiving it rather than by sympathizing with it (for in that way he would become the world itself - and this identification of the individual with the world is the business of the saint, not of the Faust poet, who has ended up as a model for philistines to emulate); finally, what I always like about Göthe is that he always felt the inappropriateness of his behaviour and yet found no comfort in expressly avoiding all contact with fellow-suffering, - as I say, Göthe for me is a gift of nature by means of which I learn to understand the world, and in this he is almost unique. He did what he could, and - all honour to him! - But why attempt to turn his pitiful Faust into one of the noblest types of humankind? It is because the world grows fearful when it stands before the abyss that is the great problem of why we exist; how grateful people are when Faust finally steps back from the void and, having refused to quit the world, resolves to accept it as it is. Yes, if only you knew that from now on his only guide is Mephistopheles, you could prepare yourselves for the eternal torments of the father of lies, after the blessed redemptress, the glorious figure of Gretchen, has turned her back on you, she who is exalted by suffering. Göthe knew this very well; but you should know it, too! -
What nonsense I’m talking! Is it the pleasure of talking to myself, or the joy of talking to you? - Yes, to you! But when I look into your eyes, I am lost for words; everything that I might say then becomes meaningless! You see, everything then becomes so indisputably true, I am then so sure of myself, whenever these wonderful, hallowed eyes rest upon me and I grow lost in contemplation of them! Then there is no longer any object nor any subject; everything then becomes a single entity, deep, immeasurable harmony! There I find peace, and in that peace the highest and most perfect life! He is a fool who would seek to win the world and a feeling of peace from outside himself! A blind man who would not have recognized your glance nor found his soul within it! Only inside, within us, only deep down does salvation dwell! - Only when I do not see you - or may not see you - can I speak to you and explain myself. -
Be good to me, and forgive me, and forgive my childishness yesterday: you were quite right to call it that! -
The weather seems quite mild. I shall come into the garden today; as soon as I see you, I hope I may find you alone for a moment! -
Take my whole soul as a morning salutation! -
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 208