But, my dearest and most precious child, why no news? Do I have to draw all information out of you by force? Can people not write to me, wretch that I am, instead of merely answering my questions? It is really most unsettling. I wrote to Otto recently: no answer from him either! Now there is nothing left but to dream: and that helps me to get by. I dream a great deal and often: but even pleasant dreams have something disquietening about them, since, according to the rules that govern the interpretation of dreams, one must never forget that, even though the object that arouses our worries may appear harmless enough, it will reveal its opposite facet at the least sign of excess. But what a poor makeshift our dreams are! Though we may know a great deal about what each person dreams, all that this indicates is the emptiness of our existence in a waking state. I keep on remembering der grüne Heinrich and how he ended up only dreaming. -
[...] I almost feel as though I should say nothing about myself on this occasion: but, then, what do I know about you! Nothing, except that I know nothing: genuinely philosophical knowledge! And about myself?? Dearest child, nothing sensible will become of me as long as I live, and, above all, no one of any intelligence will be any the more sensible as a result. At present, for ex., I am being fêted by all intelligent people, and the whole world imagines that I must be beside myself with joy and self-contentment, since I have finally achieved the incredible good fortune of having one of my operas accepted for performance in Paris. “What more can he want?” people are saying. As you can imagine, - I have never been more weary of the whole affair than at present, and to everyone who congratulates me, I bare my teeth in anger. That is how I am! -
[...] Anyone who can calmly observe the life of such a talented but incredibly decadent nation as the French and who can summon up an interest in everything that may be seen as useful in developing and ennobling this race can scarcely be blamed for regarding the acceptance of a French Tannhäuser as a matter of the most vital concern for the educability of these people. Just think of the miserable state of all French art, and how poetry is in fact completely alien to a race that knows only rhetoric and eloquence. Given the total exclusivity of the French language and its inability to absorb the poetic element that is alien to it by means of translations from another language, the only means by which poetry may influence the French is through music. The Frenchman, however, is really not musical, all his music having reached him from abroad: from the very beginning, the style of French music has been moulded by contact with Italian and German music, and is really nothing more than the crossing point between both these styles. -
Strictly speaking, Gluck taught the French only how to reconcile music with the rhetorical style of French tragédie; basically, there was no question here of true poetry. That is why the Italians have had virtually the whole field to themselves ever since, for it was only ever a question of a rhetorical mannerism, but otherwise it had as little to do with music as it did with poetry. The resultant neglect, which has grown increasingly worse right up to the present day, is unbelievable. In order to get to know the singers at the Opera, I was recently obliged to listen to the latest offering of a certain Prince Poniatowski. Imagine how I felt there!! What a longing seized hold of me to return to the simple mountain valleys of Switzerland!! I felt completely done in when I arrived home, and all possibility of work disappeared without trace. What I did learn, however, is that hideous impressions serve only to provoke more intense counter-reactions and to increase the significance of these latter for us. “You can see”, they told me, “how things stand, and what we expect and demand of you!” The people who told me this are men who have not set foot inside the Opera for 20 years and who knew only the Conservatoire concerts and quartets, and who finally — without knowing me personally — studied my scores, and not only musicians but painters, scholars, indeed - statesmen. They say to me, “what you have brought us is not even remotely like anything that has been offered here before, since you bring the whole of poetry with your music; you bring a complete whole, and bring it, moreover, entirely independently and free of the influence that was earlier exerted by our institutes upon any artist who wished to create anything for us. You, however, bring us something that is both perfect in form and supremely forceful in expression: not even the most ignorant Frenchman could wish to alter any of it; he must accept it as a whole, or else reject it as a whole. And herein lies the great importance that we attach to the forthcoming event: if your work is rejected, we shall know at least where we stand, and shall abandon all hope; if it is accepted, and accepted, moreover, at a stroke (for the French can be influenced in no other way), we shall all breathe a sigh of relief; for neither science nor literature, but only the art of the theatre, which is the most immediate and most general in its effectiveness, can impress the mind of the nation and alter its views. However, - we remain convinced that the greatest and most lasting success will be yours!” -
Indeed, even the director, who has now made a more detailed acquaintance of the subject, boasts in public that, with Tannhäuser, he can at last reckon on a real “succès d’argent”.
I talked at great length in Brussels with a remarkable man, an old, very shrewd, witty and uncommonly knowledgeable diplomat, who advised me most warmly not to ignore the French: whatever one might say and think about them, one thing was indisputable, he went on, namely that the French now represented the real prototype of European civilization, and that to make a decisive impression upon them meant influencing the whole of Europe. -
All this really sounds most encouraging, and it is clear that I shall not be able to escape from the position of importance that people expect me to occupy in the world. But it is strange that I really feel so little concern for Europe or, indeed, for the world at large: and at the bottom of my heart I ask myself, what concern is all this of mine? But, as I say, I can see that I shall not escape from all this: oh, my daemon will see to that. The surest guarantee of my unfailing influence upon Europe is - my present hardship!
[...]
In the meantime I must put myself in the right frame of mind to write a great ballet. What do you say to that? Do you doubt my ability to do so? Well, you shall beg my forgiveness for that once you have heard and seen it. For now only this much: not a note, not a word of Tannhäuser will be altered. But a “ballet” was said to be imperative, and this ballet was supposed to occur in the second act, since the subscribers to the Opera always arrive at the theatre somewhat later, after a heavy dinner, never at the beginning. Well, I declared that I would not take my orders from the Jockey Club, but that I would withdraw my work. But now I intend to help them out of their difficulty: the opera does not need to begin until 8 o’clock, and then I shall have another go at the unholy Venusberg, and this time I’ll do it properly.
This court of Frau Venus was clearly the weak point in my work: lacking a good ballet, I resorted at the time to a few coarse brush-strokes, and in that way spoiled a great deal: in particular, the Venusberg left a very dull and indecisive impression, and, as a result, I lost an important foundation upon which the whole of the subsequent tragedy should have been built to shattering effect. All those decisive reminiscences and reminders whose aim is to fill us with a powerful sense of horror (since only in this way can we explain the course of the action) lost almost all their effectiveness and significance: fear and a constant sense of unease failed to make themselves felt. But I now also recognize that at the time that I wrote Tannhäuser I was not yet able to do the sort of thing that is necessary here: for this I should have required a far greater mastery such as I have only now acquired: only now that I have written Isolde’s final transfiguration have I been able to find the right ending for the Flying Dutchman Overture, as well as - the horrors of the Venusberg. One becomes all-powerful only by playing with the world. Of course, I shall have to invent everything here myself in order to be able to prescribe every last nuance to the ballet-master: but it is certain that only dance can be effective here and complete the sense: but what a dance! People will be amazed at all that I have hatched here. I have not yet got round to writing anything down: but I intend to attempt a few preliminary indications here. Do not be surprised if I do so in a letter to Elisabeth.
Venus and Tannhäuser linger behind in the way originally indicated: now, however, the three Graces are discovered reclining at their feet, their limbs enchantingly entwined. A tight-knit group of childish limbs surrounds the couch: they are sleeping cupids who, as though in some children’s game, have fallen upon each other, fighting, and fallen asleep.
All around, on the ledges of the grotto, loving couples recline at ease. Only in their midst are to be seen dancing nymphs, teased by fauns from whom they attempt to flee. This group becomes more animated in its movements: the fauns grow more wanton, the teasing flight of nymphs invites the menfolk from among the reclining couples to come to their defence. Jealousy on the part of the deserted women: the fauns’ increasing impudence. Tumult. The Graces rise to their feet and enter the fray, demanding that charm and composure be restored: they, too, are teased, but the fauns are driven off by the young men: the Graces reconcile the couples. - Sirens can be heard singing. - Then the sounds of tumult are heard in the distance. The fauns, bent on revenge, have summoned up the Bacchantes. The Wild Huntsmen come storming along, after the Graces have resumed their position at Venus’s feet. The triumphant procession brings all manner of monstrous beasts with it: among others, they seek out a black ram, which is carefully examined lest it be found to have a white mark upon it: to cries of jubilation it is dragged towards a waterfall; a priest strikes it down and sacrifices it to the accompaniment of hideous gestures.
Suddenly, to the sounds of wild rejoicing, there emerges from the whirlpool your old friend, the Nordic Stromkarl with his strange and over-large fiddle. He now plays to the dance, and you can imagine what I shall have to invent here in order to give this dance its appropriate quality; more and more of the mythological rabble are drawn in. All the animals sacred to the gods. Finally centaurs galloping around among the raging throng. The Graces despair of quelling the tumult. They throw themselves in desperation upon the raging host; in vain! They look round in search of help in the direction of Venus: with a beckoning gesture she arouses the cupids who now fire off a regular hail of arrows at the raging host, more and ever more of them; their quivers are constantly refilled. Now the figures begin increasingly to pair off with each other; wounded men-folk stagger into their lovers’ arms: a raging desire seizes hold of them all. The arrows, wildly whirring all around them, have struck even the Graces. They no longer have any control over them.
Fauns and Bacchantes rush away in pairs: the Graces are abducted on the backs of the centaurs; the others all reel away towards the background: the couples sink down to the ground: the cupids, still shooting their arrows, have run after the Wild Hunt. Growing weariness. Mists descend. The sirens can be heard further and further away. All are protected. Calm. -
Finally — Tannhäuser starts up from his reverie. - Something like that. What do you think? It amuses me to have used my Stromkarl with the eleventh variation. This also explains why Venus and her court have travelled northwards: only there could they find the fiddler to play for the old gods. I also like the black ram. But I could perhaps replace it by something else. Jubilant maenads ought to carry in the murdered Orpheus: they would toss his head into the waterfall, - and then the Stromkarl would spring up. But this is not so easy to understand without words. What do you think? -
I wish I had access to Genelli’s water-colours: he really brought these mythological excesses to life. Ultimately I shall have to help myself out here. But there is still a great deal for me to invent.
Well, this is another proper Kapellmeister letter that I have written you. Don’t you think so? And this time it is even a ballet-master letter. I hope it puts you in a good mood?
And yet you do not write to me? Nor Otto, either. Oh you wicked, wicked people! Where shall I find the letters to cheer me up? You know very well that there is nothing else that gives me such genuine pleasure. But only when it is you I am dealing with.
[...]
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 257