[...] - There is certainly no one who has less pleasure, enjoyment, or even relaxation and passing stimulus of any kind than I. Whatever I do, I have never for a moment considered giving myself enjoyment or pleasure, since I have learned to realize with increasing certainty that whatever I have sought has never come to pass but always turned into the opposite of what I was seeking. This is so certain for me that, after an excursion which I recently undertook to Fontainebleau, where I was drawn by the promise of the beautiful trees there, I am now firmly resolved not to think of any further kind of distraction, for ex., throughout the rest of this summer, since I have now grown so extremely sensitive that even an outing such as this one ultimately revealed itself to me as an occasion for torment rather than pleasure. No one enters my lonely life whom I am not glad to see the back of when he leaves.
Whenever I feel the stirrings of an unquenchable desire for familiar contact or even for the slightest change, I tell myself, with increasing certainty, that every potential fulfilment of that desire would cause me only pain, and so I remain quietly at home, conscious of the fact that I would not find even the least relaxation that I was hoping for. This perfect and total sense of resignation is something which I have no doubt will be understood by scarcely any one, least of all by those who have children! -
The fact that I not only lead this unspeakably joyless existence, but that I live in a world of exigence and consideration for others which, in their eyes, almost always make me appear in the kind of light that they covet for themselves ultimately leads, on my part, to the strangest sensations of this world. I tell you quite openly that the bitterness which I often admitted to you is growing less and less a part of me, and in its place has come contempt. This is not a violent emotion, rather does it give me an increasing sense of peace: for my own part, I no longer have a relation with anyone in which this feeling does not have the upper hand now: and this places far fewer demands on my heart, which is now a good deal less vulnerable: - I can now feel contempt where I once felt embittered! -
And so I express myself much less frequently, too, and assume that I am not here to be judged by my actions, but rather do I hope that some, at least, of my works will be understood one day. But this much I shall say: only the feeling of my own purity gives me this strength. I feel that I am pure: I know in my innermost soul that I have constantly worked for others, never for myself; and my constant sufferings are my witness. -
But joy? Joy no longer interests me! And that is my consolation: each joy that I caught myself feeling would be a form of self-accusation, and that would be the end of my proud right to feel contempt. -
And so it is with an odd sense of satisfaction that I can tell you today that the disclosure which I received a few days ago from Germany, informing me that my exile had been lifted, has left me thoroughly cold and indifferent. Telegraphic despatches arrived here, jubilantly bearing their senders’ congratulations: I have not replied to a single one of them. Who would understand me if I told them that this news has merely opened up a new field of suffering for me, suffering that so outweighs all possibility of my feeling contentment that I see before me only sacrifices on my part? Anyone who happens to come too close to me suddenly seems to understand this: but it is no more than the faintest trace of understanding; once he has turned his back, it is not long before he ends up thinking that it is mere affectation on my part! And these are some of the better kind! But as for the rest! - I feel only disgust! -
But I have a friend to whom I am growing more and more attached. It is my old friend Schopenhauer, so sullen in appearance and yet so deeply affectionate a person. Whenever my feelings have ranged most widely and deeply, a unique sense of self-renewal overcomes me each time I open that book of his, for here I find myself a whole person once more and see myself fully understood and clearly expressed, but in a quite different language, which soon transforms my suffering into an object of understanding, and, on the basis of what I feel, soon changes everything into marmoreal, cool and comforting intellect, an intellectual understanding which, by revealing me to myself, at the same time reveals the whole world to me! It is a quite wonderful reciprocal action, an exchange of the most supremely inspiriting kind: and its effect is always fresh, since it continues to grow in strength. It is this that restores my sense of peace, and even contempt resolves itself as love: for all flattery is at an end; clear understanding makes my suffering less intense: the folds are smoothed away, and sleep again assumes its restorative power. And how good it is that the old man knows nothing at all of what he is to me, nor what I am through him.
And let me also remind you of a quite different friend. You may laugh, but I am speaking of a true angel whom I always have about me: a creature of unshakeable kindness that never so much as looks at me without lavishing upon me a veritable torrent of joy and caresses. It is the little dog that you once sent me on my sick-bed! I cannot tell you how affectionate this incomparable animal is to me. Every evening I lose my way with him in the Bois de Boulogne! I often think then of my peaceful Sihlthal! Fare you well, you kind soul! And accept my most grateful thanks! -
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 260