My dear child,
You have given me much pleasure! I fully intended to write to you yesterday - so much have I been delayed! - with the letter to Wesendonck, in order to tell you how much pleasure your recent letter had given me: I was interrupted yet again, but then today came, bringing with it Schiller’s Dithyramb. I have never understood this poem as well as I did today: you teach me how to see ever-new beauties. How pleased I was to see from all this that you are feeling better again! -
I, too, am now slowly getting better, and - I can now admit it - from a serious illness. 10 years ago - also in Paris - I suffered from severe rheumatism; the doctor advised me, in particular, to do all I could to conduct it off to the outside lest the attacks should find their way to my heart. And so all my life’s sufferings now came together and threatened to terminate at my heart. This time I really thought I would succumb. But everything is once again to be driven to the outside: I shall attempt to divert this pressure on my heart by means of some nobly distracting activity. You will help me in this? Won’t you, my good people? -
My first piece of good news came from myself. The proofs of the third act of Tristan suddenly arrived. You will, I know, understand how I felt when my gaze fell upon this last completed work of mine, a glance that brought renewed life and strength to me, a sense of fulfilment and - of inspiration. Scarcely can a father have felt such joy at the sight of his child! In a flood of tears - why deny my weakness? - I heard a voice calling out: no! You shall not end yet; you must complete what you have begun! He who has just created such a work is still full to overflowing! -
So be it! -
Well, your letter pleased me, too, not least when I saw that your child, who has grown to be very intelligent, is occasionally guilty of a trivial mistake concerning me. I then say to myself: she will soon have the pleasure of reaching a clearer understanding of this point, too; for ex., that when I argue about politics, I have something quite different in mind from the apparent subject etc. But how it pleases me to be in the wrong whenever I argue with you: I always learn something new in the process. -
A most melancholy duty of love then came my way. I suddenly learned of the fatal illness of dear father Fischer in Dresden. You will recall that I often spoke of his wonderful loyalty and devotion. A - heart disease finally brought the old man to the brink of death: when my wife went in to see him, he was racked by the most terrible heart spasms and struggled to utter the pitiful cry: “Oh, Richard! Richard has forgotten me and cast me aside!” I had been expecting him in Lucerne this summer, and then not written to him again. I immediately wrote to him now. I then received news of his death, he had not been able to have my letter read to him.
I have spent the last few days writing a piece in his memory: as soon as I receive a copy of it, I shall send it to you! - What a business! -
And the workmen have still not left the house: these Parisians are no different from the people you had in. I have finally got my own little apartment in order. Were you to set foot in it, you would almost think you were entering the Asyl. The same furniture, the old desk, the same green carpets: engravings, everything - just as you know it. The only difference is that the rooms are smaller, so that I have had to divide things up: my small salon contains the Erard, the green sofa and both the armchairs that used to be in the tea-room; on the wall are the Kaulbach, the Cornelius and the two Murillos. To one side is a small cabinet with shelves for books, a desk, and the famous causeuse (a souvenir of Lucerne). I have had my bedroom decorated with a plain pale-purple paper with a border made up of a few green stripes: the Madonna della Sedia is the only ornament. A tiny little room next to it is fitted out as a bathroom. And so I am now finally ensconced, for the last time, I hope. You know I can stick to decisions that are made in earnest: well - : never, ever again shall I set up house! God knows what may bring an end to this final move: but I know that it, too, will come to an end before I die: but I also know that I shall not establish another haunt for myself but, totally dispossessed, shall simply wait until someone closes my eyes for me. -
On this occasion, too, I was again overcome by an absurd eagerness to arrange everything as quickly as possible, so that I might again have some peace and quiet: I always undertake too much at such times, not through any pleasure in what I am doing but in order to arrive at the intended goal as soon as possible, so that certain needs, often satisfied down to the tiniest detail, shall no longer have a disruptive effect upon me. That is how it must be: for there is no other way that I can explain to myself the absurd eagerness with which I devote myself to such activities when, on the other hand, I know how little attached I am to such things and how carelessly I can cast everything behind me. Yes, you may well laugh! It does not bother me. -
A few days ago I was invited to a musical soiree at which sonatas, trios etc. from Beethoven’s later period were played. Both the interpretation and the execution put me in a very bad mood, and I shall not be caught out again so soon. Still, I had some memorable experiences. I sat next to Berlioz, who immediately introduced me to the composer Gounod who was sitting next to him - an artist of amiable appearance and honest aspirations, but not, I think, very talented. Scarcely had word got round that I was there when everybody crowded round Berlioz, demanding to be introduced to me; strangely enough, they were all admirers of mine, having studied my scores without understanding German. This is something that often puzzles me greatly. I now fear that I shall have a large number of visitors, and I shall have to be somewhat on my guard. I have neglected the young Mme Chamace quite shamelessly so far. As for Paris, I have not yet recovered my senses. But on the whole it amuses me to undertake something purely in order to keep my “rheumatism” at bay.
I am reading Liszt’s Gypsy Music. Somewhat over-inflated and hackneyed: but the prominence given to the gypsy character (unmistakably the Chandalas of India) has again brought Prakriti (or Savitri) vividly to mind. More on this another time. -
And now for today - a thousand thanks! Ah! Does that really say it all!! I shall soon be gossiping again with the child! -
R.W.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 251