My most truly beloved friend and lord,
When I spoke to you about Tichatscheck as “Lohengrin” and said that his singing was like a painting by Dürer, but that his outward appearance was more like a picture by Holbein, I ought to have been more explicit and begged you to listen to the singer with your ears open, but not to observe him too keenly: for only in this way would it have been possible for you to gain an impression of him, and understand that, given the quite deplorable quality of all other tenors known to me, he remains the best available. You ignored my warning: you stared at him with redoubled intensity; it was impossible for him to withstand this scrutiny: the vital illusion was lost.
I fear now, my gracious friend, that on this occasion your eye was too keen and that you have destroyed all I had been at such pains to build up; my only wish is that you might now cast in my direction the same keen glance as that with which you destroyed this illusion, and see your friend who feels his continuing presence in your proximity, where you had so confidingly bade him appear, to be a source of embarrassment and growing shame. You would also see the advantage which, because of your decision with regard to this performance of Lohengrin, you have given those people who are actively engaged in using my continuing presence in your proximity as an excuse for a new and ominous separation. The Viennese papers have already carried reports of some new disfavour into which I am said to have fallen; the almost inevitable confirmation of this is bound to follow the moment the performance of Lohengrin fails to take place, or else takes place without you; what further consequences may ensue from this we know only too well from experience. All desire on my part, and all ability to exercise a formative and beneficial influence upon so utterly derelict an artistic institution will be paralysed in the cruellest way possible: it will be a victory for the basest theatrical cabal. People will once again ask themselves whether I am really so close to your heart, or even if I enjoy your respect sufficiently for them not to be able to make any impression upon me.
There is but a single means whereby I may avoid these sad but predictable consequences, and this I owe once again to my noble benefactor’s boundless grace.
In distant lands where none of you shall wander
there lies a burg that Monsalvat is called. -
Thither will the white dove lead me back: - it is Noah’s dove which returned to the Ark when it found the world still a desolate expanse: the dove of the Holy Ghost. There you will allow me to create my works for you: I cannot and will not do more. I shall leave you my sword and horn: prevail upon my loyal Hans to fight bravely with them for me. Our friend will keep the ring: loyal as she is, she shall help you remember me. Fare you well, dearly beloved friend! - Eternally loyal, I remain yours in unbroken love,
Your own
Richard Wagner
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 360