I should really prefer not to write to you today, my dearest Franz, since I am not in the mood for it. But since it is impossible to think of work, I may as well attempt some kind of activity, although I do not know what the result will be. If you were suddenly to enter my solitude, it would be my only chance of finding even the possibility of such a possibility. However, it seems as though you have already disposed of your summer, so that Löwenberg and Leipzig have come out of it very well, while the third L (Lucerne) has been totally forgotten. Well, I’m stuck here in Lucerne, and, looked at closely, it is the only place in the world where I can possibly stay at present. That this is no “life” that I am living, you already know, or can imagine; the only thing that could help, art, art to the point of drowning and forgetting the world, - well, I have even less of that than I do of life, and this, moreover, has been going on for quite some time, so that I shall soon be counting it in decades! Apart from the servants, I see and speak to no one. Just think occasionally how I must feel. - Children! Children! I fear I have been left in the lurch far too long, and that you will suddenly be made to feel that, in my case, it is “too late”. People are now saying to me: “Finish Tristan, then we shall see!” - That is all very well. But what would happen if I were not to finish Tristan, because I could not finish it? I feel as though I am now about to pine away finally and collapse within sight of my - goal (?). At least I look at my book once a day with a right good will, but my head remains confused, my heart empty, and I stare outside at the mists and rain-clouds which, ever since my arrival here, have prevented me from enjoying even the prospect of stirring up my lifeless blood by means of a few refreshing excursions. And so people say: - well, why don’t you work, then things will get going again! Admirable advice; but, poor devil that I am, I have absolutely no routine, and if things do not happen of their own accord, I cannot make them happen. A delightful state of affairs! And, at the same time, absolutely no chance of helping myself in any other way. Everything barred and bolted! Only work is said to help me: but what will help me to be able to work? - Clearly I have too little of what you have too much! -
Oh, what enthusiasm I feel for the German Confederation of the Germanic Nation! For God’s sake do not let that criminal L. Napoleon get his hands on my dear German Confederation: I should be too deeply distressed if there were any changes here! - For the rest, I am curious to know what will become of my projected move to Paris. It is after all terribly unpatriotic of me to want to make myself at home in the principal haunt of the enemy of the Germanic Nation. The good Germans really ought to do something to spare their most Germanic of all Germanic opera composers from this grim ordeal. - In addition, I may find myself pretty well completely cut off in Paris from my German resources; and yet, once in Paris, I shall be in a position to appeal to the very highest quarter in order to ensure my permanent settlement there, for my stay in Switzerland is of course coming to an end. So Germany is bent on driving me into the arms of her enemy! That too, is all right by me!! - But there is now also the possibility that I shall go to America for six months in the autumn, since I have received offers from there which, in view of the German Confederation’s present interest in me, I cannot reasonably ignore. This ought to be decided before long. What makes me hesitate is the fact that it would interfere with my plan for Tristan in Karlsruhe, because I would have to abandon it for the present and would probably never again take it up again at any future date. Having reached the last act of this child of sorrow, I am at the very brink of “to be or not to be” - slight pressure on some spring of common chance, to which I am so pitilessly exposed, and this child may perish in the final throes of birth. With me everything can change in the twinkling of an eye; I may go on, or I may come to a complete standstill. For you see, Franz, I am in a bad way! -
I have heard nothing from any of my friends for a long time; no doubt they all assume I am perfectly happy in my beloved Switzerland, in such splendid solitude, oblivious to the world in the joy of composing. -
I do not blame them for deluding themselves in this way. But if only they knew that it was I who had to point a pistol at your head in order to get you to send me the Dante you had dedicated to me, they would have grounds for concluding that all was not as it seemed. What do you say to that? - And so I find myself talking about Dante after all, although I had absolutely no desire to speak of it today, since I care for it too much to implicate it in my present mood. But I do want to say at least this, that we had better keep to ourselves the words of dedication which you wrote in my copy; I, at least, shall not divulge them to a living soul. They have made me positively blush for shame, believe me! I cannot tell you forcibly enough how pitiful I feel as a musician; from the bottom of my heart I consider myself an absolute bungler. You ought to see me sitting here on occasion, thinking to myself, “that will do” - and then going over to the piano to put together some miserable rubbish which I am then stupid enough to abandon. Can you imagine what I feel then - ! It is the sincere conviction that I am musically worthless! And now you come along exuding music from every pore in streams, springs and waterfalls, - and I have to listen while you say things like this to me. I find it very difficult to believe that this is not the purest irony, and I have to recall your friendship for me very clearly and very fully in order to convince myself that it was not your wish simply to make fun of me. - My dearest friend, it is an odd story, but, believe me, I am worth very little. I do now believe quite genuinely that Reissiger helped me with Tannhäuser and Lohengrin. And you have certainly helped me on my new works; but now that you leave me in the lurch, I can write no more.
Of Dante only this much today, that my chief pleasure was to discover how perfect a memory I had retained of it, from your first playing it to me. Now that I have studied it in more detail I see that not a single important feature had escaped me; indeed, it is as though the smallest and finest detail had remained entirely familiar from that first hearing; I might almost regard it as pleasing evidence of my receptive faculties; but I think the credit is due to the characteristic greatness and properties of your work.
[...]
For the present I am squandering all the good humour I can summon up on my wife! I pamper her and look after her as though she were a honeymoon bride. By way of compensation I have the satisfaction of knowing that she is getting on well; her health has improved visibly, she is convalescing and I hope she may even acquire a little sense in her old age; I recently wrote to her, shortly after I had received your Dante, to tell her that we had passed through Hell; that I hoped that Purgatory would do her good, and that we may finally, perhaps, enjoy a little Paradise. It is all quite splendid! - Now give my kind regards to the Prince of Löwenberg or whatever he is called, and tell him that if the German Confederation does not recall me soon, I shall go to Paris and betray the length and breadth of Germany!
God be with you! You will, I hope, forgive me this insane letter!
Ever yours,
R.W.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 241