I am now becoming increasingly aware of a quality which I have acquired in my art, since it also determines me in my life. From the very beginning it has been a part of my nature for my moods to change rapidly and abruptly from one extreme to another: states of extreme tension, after all, can scarcely do otherwise than impinge on each other; indeed, it is because of this that we are so often able to preserve our own lives. By the same token, true art has basically no other object than to show these heightened moods in their extreme relation to each other: the only thing that can matter here - the important decision - is the result solely of these extreme contrasts. In the case of art, however, the material use of these extremes may well result in a pernicious mannerism which may degenerate to the level of a straining after superficial effects. I have noticed how the newer French school in particular, with Victor Hugo at its head, is clearly caught up in this. . . . I recognize now that the characteristic fabric of my music (always of course in the closest association with the poetic design), which my friends now regard as so new and so significant, owes its construction above all to the extreme sensitivity which guides me in the direction of mediating and providing an intimate bond between all the different moments of transition that separate the extremes of mood. I should now like to call my most delicate and profound art the art of transition, for the whole fabric of my art is made up of such transitions: all that is abrupt and sudden is now repugnant to me; it is often unavoidable and necessary, but even then it may not occur unless the mood has been clearly prepared in advance, so that the suddenness of the transition appears to come as a matter of course. My greatest masterpiece in the art of the most delicate and gradual transition is without doubt the great scene in the second act of Tristan and Isolde. The opening of this scene presents a life overflowing with all the most violent emotions, - its ending the most solemn and heartfelt longing for death. These are the pillars: and now you see, child, how I have joined these pillars together, and how the one of them leads over into the other. This, after all, is the secret of my musical form, which, in its unity and clarity over an expanse that encompasses every detail, I may be bold enough to claim has never before been dreamt of. If only you knew how that guiding emotion has inspired me to invent musical devices that would never have occurred to me previously (devices in terms of rhythm, as well as harmonic and melodic development), you would realize that even in the most specialized branches of art no truth is ever invented that does not derive from such grand primary motives. - That, then, is art! But this art is very much bound up with my own life. Extreme moods in a state of violent conflict will no doubt always remain a part of my nature: but it is embarrassing to have to consider their effects upon others. To be understood is so indispensably important. Just as, in art, it is the most extreme and the grandest of life’s moods that must be made intelligible (moods which on the whole remain unknown in ordinary people’s lives, except in rare times of war and revolution), this understanding can be achieved only through the most well-defined and most compelling motivation of these transitions, and my entire work of art consists very much in producing the necessary and willing emotional mood by means of this motivation. Nothing has horrified me more than when cuts have been made in my operas, as, for ex., in Tannhäuser, the opera in which I first worked with a growing sense of the beautiful and convincing need for transitions, and where, between the outburst of horror at Tannhäuser’s dreadful confession and the devout attention with which Elisabeth’s intercession is finally heard, I had composed a most significantly (and musically) motivated transition of which I have always been proud and which has never failed to make a convincing impression. You can well imagine how I felt when I discovered that (as in Berlin) people saw nothing here but long-windedness and straightway struck out one of the most essential sections of my work of art? -
That is how it is with me in art. And in life? Did you not often witness the way in which people found that what I had to say was presumptuous, tiresome and unending whenever I was guided by the very same instinct, and wished only to guide the conversation gradually round, after some agitated or unusual remark, towards some conciliatory and conscious understanding? -
Do you still recall that last evening with Semper? I had suddenly lost my temper and insulted my adversary in a strongly worded attack. Scarcely had the words left my lips when my anger immediately abated, and all I could see - and feel - was the need for reconciliation and to restore a proper sense of composure to the conversation. At the same time, however, I was guided by a very clear feeling that this could not be sensibly achieved by suddenly falling silent, but only by a gradual and conscious transition; I recall, even while I was still speaking my mind quite forcefully, that I was already conducting the conversation with a certain artistic consciousness which, had I been allowed to have my way, would most certainly have led to an intellectually and conciliatory conclusion and have ended on a note of understanding and appeasement. I admit that I am asking too much here since, once real emotions have been aroused, everyone always insists upon being in the right and even prefers to be seen as the injured party rather than be made to see reason. On this as on many other occasions I have succeeded only in bringing down upon myself the reproach and rebuff of self-complacency when speaking. Even you yourself, I believe, were misled for a moment that evening and were afraid that the fact that I was continuing to speak as forcefully as before was the result of my persistent excitedness: and yet I also remember retorting, very calmly: “just allow me to guide the conversation back to its earlier point, that is something that takes time!” -
Do you perhaps think that experiences like these are very painful to me? - In truth, I love my fellow humans, and it is no timid, egotistical instinct which increasingly drives me from their society. It is not injured vanity that makes me sensitive to reproaches that I talk too much, but the sad feeling - what can I be to people and what can they be to me if, in my dealings with them, I seek not to achieve an understanding but only to maintain my opinion unaltered? On subjects that are alien to me and of which I have neither experience nor an unerring feeling, I would certainly never expatiate unless it were to learn more about them: but whenever I feel that I have something sensible and coherent to say on a subject that is familiar to me, simply to allow the other person to destroy the development of my argument so as to give him the appearance of being in the right by holding the opposite view - well, that really invalidates every word that might ever be spoken in society in general. I now decline all real society - and feel much better for it.
But perhaps I am again talking too much today, and making too many connections between things that ought to remain apart? - Do you understand me when, in talking to you on this occasion, my feelings strive in the direction of a “transition” and I attempt to guide the conversation round in such a way as to accommodate the rough edges of my moods, rather than suddenly falling silent and suddenly announcing all at once that I am calm and serenely cheerful? Could this possibly seem natural to you? no! Today, as before, you should follow the course along which I should like to guide your sympathetic interest in me in order that you may arrive at a calmer feeling towards me! There can be no more painful emotion in my heart than to arouse in others an interest that causes them torment: though it has fled from me, you may yet grant me the fair freedom to bring about a gradual and gentle sense of calm. Everything with me is so very much linked together within an overall context: this has its grievous disadvantages, since it means that common afflictions that may (possibly) be easy enough to remove can often exert a quite disproportionate influence upon me; but it also has the advantage that I acquire from within this same context the means by which to reassure myself; just as everything flows towards my ultimate task in life, my art, so, in turn, this art is the source of that clear spring which bedews the parched byways of my life. As a result of my sincere wish to exercise a calming and conciliatory influence upon your feelings of sympathy for me, I have today been enabled to gain an awareness of this supreme artistic quality of mine which I find developed in my new works to increasing advantage, and thus I have been allowed to address you as though from the sanctuary of my art, without the least constraint and without even the least friendly deception, but entirely truthfully and unaffectedly. -
[...]
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 250