It was a great satisfaction to me, beloved friend, to know that you had arrived in Venice. I heard of it first through the newspapers, and a few days later through a letter of Karl’s to my wife. You will easily believe that I am consumed with the desire to hear from you personally as to whether life there, as regards externals, is likely to prove tolerable if not exactly comfortable for you. Do therefore satisfy my deep desire to know.
Today I wrote the last notes of the pianoforte arrangement of Tristan, or, rather, of as much of the score as I possess, and am as much refreshed by the pleasure it gave me as I am cramped in the fingers from the labour of it. I flatter myself, however, that my arrangement will satisfy you and I want you to get Härtel’s to send you a copy as soon as it is engraved, so that you can tell me your opinion in so far as I can profit by it in my further efforts. I can assure you that it sounds fairly easy to play on the pianoforte—within limits, of course—and that the score was studied with the utmost piety. I found one or two isolated misprints in the upper winds. Now I am looking for something else to do. Your music—on paper!—has been my best medicine in “exile”; for such my stay in Berlin has really seemed—certainly it has been no asylum for me. I have a fair amount of freedom, however, and with no lessons and only mild intrigues to worry me I am feeling pretty well. My wife has been extremely kind and nice again. I wish you ever saw her in a different mood from that which she has always worn at your house. In your presence her flow of conversation seemed to dry up and her frank expansive nature to withdraw into itself. There was a compliment to you behind it all, though a misplaced one: “awe put her under a ban.” Now she is always afraid you think her too childish and altogether unimportant to be able to love you and understand you. Yet she is just one of the very few who can do so. But that’s enough of marital leader-writing. In our own house it would all go better.
Tell me, is it true that you have been officially invited to a Lohengrin performance in Vienna? Yesterday’s papers had it, with a flattering supplement for His Apostolic Majesty. It would be gorgeous beyond everything, and a good omen for future developments.
Shortly before our return there was a Tannhäuser performance, for which the house was sold out. Unfortunately the tenor Humbser (from Hamburg) is said to have been inconceivably incompetent. The Queen of England had very much wished to be present, but was prevented by a sudden indisposition. At both the court soirées at Babelsberg, however, I had to play selections from Lohengrin, and the Bridal March was even da capo’d straight away.
The Grand Duke of Baden and his wife asked after you very particularly, the Princess of Prussia too, and really in a peculiarly sympathetic way, even though it reduced itself to regrets at your not yet being pardoned. The Prince began to rave about Rienzi to me; it is far more to his taste than Tannhäuser. This seems to me to point to a possible revival later. As for me, I am sorry to say that so far no fee has arrived for my court performances, so we have had to postpone indefinitely our trip to Dresden to hear Rienzi there. Lehmann is back, and in such a complete state of deterioration that one “fears the worst,” as they say. The worst in this case would be if the opera plans should be upset (for you) by unduly extended holidays.
I have just received the enclosed note from Fräulein Frommann, my object in forwarding it being to try to induce you to write to your brother. He was here with Johanna for a few days only, in connexion with the court concert, but is definitely coming back at the end of the month.
I have still to thank you for your hospitality this year. Painful as it was to see you suffering and the most sacred thing in your life in danger, I would not for the world have missed being with you at that time. Once more I found it so delightful and so refreshing to be near you that I shall be able to live on the memory of it for a long time to come. If only I could have been of some use to you! It would have been something to ward off evil, even if I could not bring you good. But, alas, it is the way of the world: this one has the will, that one the power. Do not despise my impotence. That reminds me of that confounded Jew, whose hecatomb did actually reach me in Berlin via Zürich and was followed, a week later, by a decidedly polite and well-meaning letter from the sender in Paris. An ass, not a knave: but it’s all one. [...]
Source: Letters of Hans von Bülow to Richard Wagner, Cosima Wagner, His Daughter Daniela, Luise von Bülow, Karl Klindworth, Carl Bechstein, ed. Richard Count Du Moulin Eckart, trans. Hannah Waller, ed. Scott Goddard (Alfred A. Knopf, 1931), No. 275