Dearest Meisterin,
To judge by your last kind letter, I should really have waited for “more detailed” news from Schwalbach. I travelled through there on my way to Pest, where I had been invited by the Hungarians to give two “concerts”. I got back from there a few days ago, and found that the lamp you had promised me was already waiting for me, a gift which I find as beautiful as it is masterly and for which I wanted to thank you most sincerely. -
As for my refuge, things are only so-so; quite curious really. The need to settle down on a more permanent basis in a suitable and pleasant apartment had become overwhelming. I felt that only from such a base could I face the world one more time - the last time - and discover how things stood with it and with me. I now find that it is not in the best of health, and I sincerely regret having spent my poor and dearly earned money in acquiring the costly basis for that step in knowledge. Since no one wishes to take me in, I would have done better to buy myself a place in some Italian poor-house with my few thousand Russian roubles, and to have left the world to go its own way from now on. I really do not know any longer what I am supposed to be doing here. I tell you this in all truth and completely calmly, from the very depths of my soul! If I were to enumerate the strange misfortunes which have dogged me since my departure from Switzerland, even you would surely find here an almost systematic attempt on the part of fate to divert me from my plans. I have no luck! And a certain amount of good luck is needed if people like us are to delude ourselves into thinking that we are a part of the world. -
Meisterin, things are not good! - And I am heartily sickened of life. I recently discovered this quite clearly, thanks to an incident in which my very life was in danger. It happened on the Danube in Pest, in the selfsame boat in which two young Hungarian cavalrymen had travelled from Rotterdam to Pest last summer. A charming and intelligent woman by the name of Countess Bethlen, the mother of six children, had taken control of the tiller. There was a violent squall, and she grew anxious and sprang her luff: the waves drove the vessel against a raft, so that it cracked apart. I was seized only by pity for the poor woman, whereas all that I myself could feel was a strange sense of well-being which was so agreeably bracing that the young people around me could only marvel at my behaviour, whereas they had thought that someone as excitable as I am could be counted on to get very worked up. When they applauded me, - for I played a small part in the rescue, - I could scarcely contain my laughter!
But what is the use of it all! Death does not come so easily, especially when our time is not yet to hand. That is how it must be with me. And yet I can no longer perceive any reason why I should have been spared. Is it so that I can be of some help to those who are dear to me?? Can I mean less to them when they know I am dead than when I am cut off on every side and feel only pain? As a person, I can no longer mean anything to anyone: and spiritually? My spirit remains theirs, though it no longer refreshes my heart. I have lost all sense of enjoyment, - in everything. I lack all sense of devotional feeling, all composure: a profound and unsettling listlessness governs my inner life. I have no present, and quite clearly no future. Of faith not a vestige. There is no doubt but that true artistic activity, performances of my new works, could have altered a great deal here, and altered it significantly. My return to Germany, on the contrary, has been a fatal blow to me: it is a wretched place, and Ruge is right when he says: “the Germans are an abject nation”. There is not a glimmer of hope here, and how things stand with those august gentlemen I once thought of as my patrons you can deduce from the fact that I was invited by the Czechs in Prague, and by the Russians and the Hungarians, to repeat my Viennese concerts, whereas I am now preparing to face the fact that my worthy Germans, when asked, will almost certainly turn me down. In Berlin the intendant has refused to receive me. Etc. - It has still not been possible for me, ever since my return from Russia, to get to see a single person from the theatre here. My disgust at having to deal with these people is so great that I am incapable any longer of undertaking a single enterprise where I would need them. Everyone who is at all familiar with the situation here finds this entirely natural: but it also explains why my career is now at an end. Believe me, it is a strange feeling to know that even you yourself do not really know my works: I need perform only a fragment of them complete, and even the most talented and experienced of my disciples is forced to admit at once that he had previously as good as no idea at all of the piece. - What, then, is my spirit, my works? - without me they exist for no one. Indeed! that makes me think of my poor person as someone of great importance: yet this selfsame person exists only for me! It’s a bad business. No doubt something could be said on the matter, even something comforting and emphatically self-delusive: - but it no longer serves any useful purpose to do so! I hear what is said, what the words are, and, especially when they are written down, I can even see that all my dealings with people are now almost entirely limited to letters.
What shall I now do with my refuge, in spite of the portfolio and lamp? A difficult question, especially in view of my extreme listlessness. - I keep turning over the problem in my mind. Shall I set myself yet another time limit, a certain number of years, say, five? How shall I set about obtaining these years? It will be very difficult, and I really do not understand how. My needs are increasing: I have two households to support, two households alike in their wretchedness! - That is why I have finally fallen back upon myself as a person. No one asks after my works: the world acknowledges and respects only the virtuoso. Well, necessity has shown me that I, too, am a virtuoso. I seem to produce this effect upon people whenever I appear at the head of an orchestra. The Hungarians, who had no idea of my music and whose diet at their National Theatre consists solely of Verdi etc., accorded each of my pieces from the Nibelungs, Tristan, Mastersingers the most incredibly lively response, - but it was clear that they did so because I was performing and presenting my works to them. And so I have been telling myself, each time that I consider how best to gain “time”, that I shall have to travel around and give concerts. And no doubt this is the course of action that I shall adopt. But the unfortunate thing about it is that I cannot sustain this kind of activity at frequent intervals and for long periods. The exhaustion I suffer at such performances and rehearsals is beyond belief. But I shall see what I can do. Perhaps if I were to approach you on the subject, you might arrange a similar “concert” of fragments from my newer works for me in Zurich; but there may be difficulties here, since my poor “person” needs very many other persons in order to exert any personal influence. However, be that as it may, you will shortly discover that I am again giving concerts somewhere or other: some people will say: “oh, he wants to make some money for himself. - a few others perhaps: “it is said that he wants to die! —
But perhaps everything will turn out tolerably well, and my refuge (how many is it now?) will once again come in useful: the lamp will again light up the room, the portfolio will be filled, and - a tea-service (my old one is unobtainable!) will provide agreeable refreshment. My God! everything is possible, and although I feel constant pain and torment in every limb of my nerve-racked body, my doctor simply laughs when I ask him whether it is not bound to prove fatal in the end. This is intended to cheer me up! In truth, one feels wretched, but at least one feels something. Only complete loneliness is something that I can no longer bear: the old hunting dog that my landlord has given me is really no substitute. With my 50th year has come a kind of desire for the company of a daughter. When Bülow recently presented his little daughter to me in Berlin, regretting that it was only a little daughter, I felt a sudden flash of blinding light, and said to him: be glad, you will have great joy of this daughter. I was recently recommended a young 17-year-old girl from a reputable family, who was said to be sweet-tempered, obliging and completely unspoilt. I took her in, to serve me my tea, to keep my affairs in order, and to be present at table and in the evenings. My God, what an embarrassment it was for me to get the poor child out of the house again without obviously offending her! She was dreadfully bored, and longed to return to the town, although she made every effort to conceal this from me, so that only by using my visits abroad as an excuse was I able to get rid of her and finally able to feel relatively happy once more! - Oh God! It would be so easy to satisfy me: I know from experience how well I can get by with my servants. I thought of Vreneli who waited on me in Lucerne, but she could not get away. More recently, the elder sister of the girl I sent home turned up here: she is more experienced and reticent, and she seems sweet-tempered and is not unpleasant. I think I may have another try with her.
You see, that is how things are: I simply have to try to acquire everything by means of money, presumably because I have so much of it! - I shall let you know how things turn out.
However, I now see that I must put a stop to this letter-writing. Your husband will be quite right to criticize me for making you over-excited! Indeed, my dear, I find it difficult to write to you. All the sweetness that alone can refresh me from time to time is but a memory which lies in the past: that is why I cannot and may not write about it! What is there left? How glad I would be to be able to tell you of some genuinely innocent pleasure, or some agreeable occurrence in the present; but where might I find such a thing, without inventing it? I have already told you how I nearly drowned, but that is now over and done with! - Shall I write and tell you how I was fêted and applauded by audiences in this place and that? Believe me, I do indeed appreciate what people have done for me, and do not underestimate the ability of my music to inspire in them almost the same degree of enthusiasm as is normally the case with ballerinas and similar artists: but, God forgive me if I am always happy when it is all over, and I do not have to think any further about it. Perhaps it is pure ingratitude, which is demonstrably one of my cardinal vices. Now and again my mood of melancholy is interrupted by an agreeably delusive but fleeting impression of a more attractive kind: in Pest, for ex., I had a very young and beautiful singer with the most expressive and natural voice to perform short extracts of Elsa; she was Hungarian, spoke German in a very correct but charming manner, and had probably never really known anything about music in her life. I was very moved to have someone as innocent and as unspoilt as this girl to sing my music, and the dear child seemed in turn to be so affected by me and my music that she felt genuine emotion for the first time in her life. This outpouring of emotion was indescribably affecting and utterly delightful, so that many people must have gained the impression that the girl had fallen violently in love with me. She, too, is someone to whom I shall now have to “write” again. - You see, I am telling you all the good news I can, but I do not rightly know what else I should add, and do not even know whether you will reckon this latest story to be “good” news or not. - But at least it gives this letter a sense of direction, and you finally have something to tell your husband about me. The poor man seems fated to suffer all manner of torment: quite apart from America (for I have just about had enough of Germany!), it really is bad luck that he is still being plagued by such a dreadful sore throat which (as he amiably confessed to me) often prevents him from contradicting other people. He says he ought to be placed in a situation where he would simply not be tempted into talking. I intend suggesting that he should change places with me for a couple of months, - that is, when I am in Penzing, not when I am giving concerts, since that would finish him off in a fortnight. - But Otto really must be awfully sick of me: how often has he not tried to help me; how often has he not thought that things must finally work out for me, - and all the time I remain stuck where I am, nothing is of any use - it is all thrown away! Yes, I, too, believe that everything is wasted on me: huntsmen say in such a case that a man is “bewitched”, i.e. someone has cast a spell upon him so that he is unable to shoot straight. - That’s how it must be! -
I do not know where to send this letter. You wrote to me from Zurich on the 15th of July to say that you would be back there in 3 weeks at the latest. And so I think it safest to assume that these 3 weeks are about to expire, and to write to your old address with this letter.
Fare you well, and a thousand grateful thanks for being alive. You still exist, - and so I, too, must no doubt also exist a little, though my life be no better than it is. Kindest regards to your husband and children; they should always think well of me. I’ve finished chattering: I only hope that this letter will not make you too unhappy! Console yourself with the thought that I was able to write it at all! - Adieu, my dearest Meisterin!
Yours,
R.W.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 291