My exalted friend and gracious benefactor,
You see that I cannot bear “not to write” to you!
Reason wars with sentiment, feeling struggles with discretion, and what finally reasserts itself ever and anew is what we are and what we cannot but be.
When I received your last letter, so unexpected as it was, and read it, my first reaction was bound to be: “So was it often before!” And it was precisely this that so disheartened me: the last thing I wanted was for everything to be repeated all over again. And yet, with all the foresight of a heart that is fearful of being hurt, I must once again recognize that a fundamental feature of our relations has remained unaltered. In your gracious friendship I continue solely to enjoy the spiritual and temporal benefits of my creative calm, and what this means in terms of my lot in life is quite beyond measure. Yet I must also live with you in perfect peace. That would always have been possible if our relations had never transcended the ties that bind a gratefully devoted poet to his exalted patron and benefactor. But on this point I have repeatedly and sorrowfully expressed my mind! - It seemed always that I would not be right, until, time and again, I was reminded that ultimately I had been right after all. You know, my most gracious of friends, what I am thinking of here, since your own noble confession attests to that knowledge. It is not the difficulties of the affair itself, nor even those of our situation, which so often appear to divide us utterly; but that it must sometimes seem to me as though you were travelling a quite different path from the one where you hoped to encounter me, as though you wanted something quite different from me. Then you keep aloof, and avoid me — indeed, you join forces with the difficulties which, together, we might so easily have surmounted, so that I, a total outlaw, must ask myself whether I merely dreamed that I had a King as my friend.
Yet in order to transcend all the grief and the bitterness that I have had to endure at times such as these, I have need of but one thing alone, namely: to be able to turn once again to the future with great fixity of purpose and in the fullest of confidence. So much pettiness, and a sense of unworthiness little deserving of our regard still clings to recent events that it is impossible to countenance even the least satisfaction within this circle. The whole situation in Munich, with the personalities that it involves, can now be regarded only as an attempt which has simply not turned out to our advantage. I do not wish to return to this situation in any way. In consequence I am loath to give any further consideration to all that has happened. To do so could be of significance for me only inasmuch as I might discover that your own, inner will were involved here. Permit me therefore to indicate with what well-considered level-headedness I lovingly strive to ensure that so wondrously noble a bond as that which unites us both may achieve its fruitful and natural term. It was impossible for me here to fall back upon such expedients as cleverness or mere worldly wisdom (suitable as these may seem to others!), for I can only ever appeal to the great and uncommon feature that is our bond of ideal friendship. And that is why I must enquire closely into your will, for in its actions alone can my power lie.
I would ask you therefore to let me know, clearly and definitely, and after mature reflection, whether it was ever your serious and true intent to carry out the great plan according to which we would perform the Nibelungs and hold them up to the German world as the monumental starting-point for a new and noble period of art? Your heart alone can tell you whether this was ever your true intent. The course which events have taken during the last two years - and it is now exactly two years! - has inevitably made it ever clearer to me that you did not in fact want to carry out this plan - indeed, that the embarrassment caused you by my assumption that it would be carried out placed a constraint on you and drove us apart. Ever since I first recognized this I have been forced to fall back on myself: these two years were a sad afterglow to the sacred flame which until then had shone forth from our bond. Judge then with what bitter, nay - Godforsaken feelings I had to submit to seeing your commands carried out, as you reduced this tremendous work of mine to the level of achievement of some wretched operatic repertory performed for subscribers and critics! - There is nothing more that I can repeat here; for even before I knew you, when I had no hope of ever meeting a King, I had already sketched out, in clear and definite terms, the one and only plan according to which my work would be presented to the world: I must therefore presume to direct your attention afresh to the foreword to the poem of my Nibelung’s Ring, if you now wish to be clear in your mind what I must now be feeling - in regard to my work. - But enough! Perhaps it was all no more than a case of sad confusion. You demanded to hear something of my work; the confusion of the situation made you forget that I could have enabled you, my King, to hear my work at any time - imperfectly, perhaps, as it could not be otherwise, but none the less sufficiently correct to give you at least some idea: but it could have been only for you, the King; my intimately understanding friend. And now the only question that still matters, for your answer to it will determine our entire future:
Do you want my work as I want it, -
or: do you not want it like that? -
If so, then I no less than you and others certainly recognize the uncommon difficulties facing us here: - however, these difficulties should not separate us, but unite us. - To begin with I would ask of you only one sacrifice. It is that you withdraw for a period from all involvement in the theatre, nay — from all regard for the theatre. - Oh, would that you might believe me when I tell you that this theatre is unworthy of your touch, unworthy of my royal friend and of one who completes the work of - Richard Wagner! - If you can bring yourself to accept this, — and you will be able to do so if, as I most passionately desire, you extend your field of vision - in an artistic context, too - beyond the limitations of what, by chance, has offered itself to your gaze so far, and cast your eyes towards Italy, to its wonderful towns and works of art, in order to discover how different are those things that still lie ahead of you — things worthy, indeed, of the regard of an art-loving King and far removed from the importunate pettinesses of a German Court Theatre! - If you were able, I say, to rise for a time above this atmosphere of utter inadequacy, - if you were able to do so, more especially, out of regard for your country’s grave situation in which each of your royal resolutions is now of such crucial decisiveness, - this would be the time when all might grow to be worthy of our work. To console you for this deprivation - a consolation which I once described in my essay on “State & Religion” as the sweetest that a King might know - I would, throughout this period, perform all my works for you alone, in the manner to which you were accustomed - musical performances at least, with singers and orchestra, and given as often as you wished. During this period we would then calmly and circumspectly work out a plan for performing our great work, preparing its performance, and solving and surmounting every difficulty with sagacity and firmness. But the feat of our ultimate great success will shine forth throughout history in undying splendour, vouchsafing to you immeasurable fame and granting us both the most sublime satisfaction.
This feat is possible if a King wills it so with me.
Or will it, conversely, be possible to achieve only what the King wants in spite of the poor and helpless artist that I am? - It is this latter that has now been revealed to the world, and those who wished to witness this tawdry miracle will by now have awarded you their approbation. -
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 386