And so, my dear and honoured friend, I am seeking you out in Hamburg, as you gave me leave to do!
How often have I felt the urge to tell you how much your noble, loyal and thoughtful interest in me constantly fills me with renewed warmth whenever I gaze upon the great desolation of my present and future, and, feeling as though I have been chilled to the bone by freezing fog, look round in search of some sunny spot! It is very difficult to tell you how things stand with me. I am almost obliged to say nothing to those who understand me well, because in addition to my old affliction I then have the new one of increasing their cares about me. For a long time I was very ill; and I must confess that I still consider these periods to have been the happiest of all: my sense of resignation, which is often no more than an ideal, then becomes a humble reality; the knowledge that one cannot do a certain thing helps one see that it must be so. But the endless pain of this intermediate state, when desire stirs again and each time comes up against the same old obstacle, has a deeply depressing effect upon me. Then work is the only answer. But what work! I feel as though I shall never have done with it; as though I wanted to force death to catch me in the act! Never before have I worked so intimately; every stroke of my pen has the significance of an eternity for me; and I do not continue until I feel attracted by what I have written. It is a strange feeling to survey the thing as a whole and realize that never before have I written anything of such musical unity, of such inexhaustible fluency. Tristan will be beautiful! But it is eating into me. Who knows whether there will be any part of me left? -
And that is now my only amusement! For the rest, I have never before lived such a hermit’s life as at present. Venice makes it very easy for me to do so. Right from the outset I declined to make any new acquaintances: and that is how it has remained. In the evening Karl Ritter often comes here. Whenever I dine out at the restaurant, I see a very good-natured and extremely intelligent Russian prince, who has settled here because of me. For the rest, I am frozen stiff in my vast room, I take my morning walk along the riva as far as the public park, and spend the evenings from 6 o’clock onwards at home. I have not been to the theatre, and have not even seen the Fenice.
All the more do I live away from here. What a varied life there is out there! I have a pile of correspondence that drives me to distraction. My opera performances abroad melt into insignificance; I no longer feel anything for them. All the more have I been kept busy again by the question of my home in Germany; they want me to stand trial in Dresden, since only in that way may I reckon on being pardoned. I have declared in the strongest possible terms that I shall never do this on any condition, and - as was to be expected - I believe I have now closed my country’s doors to me for good. Where shall I settle now? That is the question. I am - very tired, and long for a final haven of rest. I still hope that, if I find it, I shall also be able to offer it to my poor wife. There is said to have been a not unmarked improvement in her state of health, although there can never be any question of a complete recovery (as her doctor has explained to me). I am told that her course of treatment this coming summer in the country outside Dresden will have a decisive effect on what happens next. If only the woman would enable me to look after her there as comfortably as possible! She keeps such sad company, torments herself and me as well, and seems determined never to find any real peace of mind. I continue to look upon her with great and heavy care! -
I do not suppose I need tell you that our friend, that dear child of God, is the sole source of my exaltation and solace. We are now writing to each other quite regularly. Her letters always fall like drops of fragrant springtime showers in the barrenness of my existence. Her poetic soul continues to grow ever richer. She sees and hits upon everything with a thoughtful sagacity that is entirely typical of genius. She is melancholic, but, it seems to me, profoundly calm. What a great comfort that is to me. - Yes, my friend! It is love! - If I complain to her too candidly, she is almost beside herself with joy at the prospect of being able to console me. Yes! Indeed! she shall have much joy of me yet! - And - She deserves it; believe me! -
A short time ago the Saxon government tried to have me extradited. I had to resort to the expedient of a medical certificate in order to be able to extend my stay here. I should like to delay any new interruption to my work until I have completed the last act of Tristan in outline. But I do not think I shall manage to do so before the end of May. I pray to God that I remain undisturbed until then. Where next? To Switzerland, at all events: I must have mountain air again. Perhaps to Lucerne. If I were not afraid of the wicked doctor, I should come straight to you and finish off Tristan for good and all in Frau von Bissing’s room. What would your sister say to that? If war is declared, I shall leave somewhat sooner: I have not the least inclination to become involved in Italian freedom. My final refuge will no doubt be Paris. I feel as though I cannot escape the absurd fate of dying there. For I have come to the end of the road with Germany.
Well, my dear friend! here you have a little pile of news from me. May I hope for a reply from you and for a report on your own activities? Are all of you assembled in the paternal home? And how goes it with those loyal and clear bright eyes that always seem to want to cause you pain? Do wish them a full recovery on my behalf. And a thousand good wishes from Venice to your sons. And if you write to Wille, tell him that I am really not as bad as all that! Perhaps he will believe you! And many sincere greetings to the entire household! In eternal and heartfelt gratitude I remain
Your Richard Wagner.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 235