My dear Friend,
As yet I find no rest, nor — alas! any desirable matter to write you! I am this moment waiting for an acquaintance who, as stylist, is to help me with a few necessary French documents: while awaiting his arrival, I follow the dictates of my heart to send you at least another brief account of myself. I should have had no time at liberty for it, except in sleepless nights — several times over, in fact, I did make a beginning then, but recoiled in horror from the thought of forwarding such nightmares to you.
Now that I have plunged into the forlorn attempt to procure myself the means for the performance of my new works through Parisian successes, let it not surprise you to hear nothing joyful from me any [...] flagrant conflict with my conscience, if I have to represent these newer works of mine to anyone as suited for an easy circulation. These works are so difficult and so completely remote from all current theatric routine, that my only hope of protecting them from total misunderstanding is to allow at least the first performances to take place under none but quite exceptional circumstances, and consequently to wait for opportunities such as are reserved for none but a man who has no need to think of time and money. Well, it seems that my fate will lead me that way. A great, unusual success stands in prospect, almost past a doubt!
On the contrary, everything is barred and bolted that looks like a prospect of performing the Tristan! The Saxon ambassador to France, a very good man, is in Dresden at this moment, and there will personally endeavour to arrange my affair with the King. As yet I can scarcely believe in his success! Were that to arrive, however, and Germany to be shortly re-opened to me, I should know no theatre which combined the forces requisite for just my work. At Berlin the lack amounts to nothing less than everything. Vienna is in utter decadence; and Dresden itself, which still might offer me the fittest company, must probably stay closed against my so indispensable personal co-operation for the present.
Now you may judge my inner feelings: here the Tannhäuser, leaving me cold and uninterested, but thrust upon me under the most favourable aspects; there the work that actively engrosses me, has need of me alone, but everything opposed to it! And I am to determine freely? Yes, there are children who, in spite of thorough schooling, still prattle gladly of the human individual's free will. Should you happen to find such a one in your neighbourhood, just ask it about how the free-will should behave here? Or whether, on the other hand, the naïve proverb "Man proposes, God disposes" does not contain a very weighty truth? Perhaps this: Man wills, but God wills still more, and takes possession of the human will to will through it what does not profit it (the individual), but him (the God). As to the "God" we then might come to terms some other time, and probably find in the long run that there is no such mighty difference between the Individual and the God, especially when the former is possessed by God, i.e. has been placed in the position to do something out of the ordinary, something seldom successful and for the good of all. But enough of exaltation, in which, however, I feel myself less proud than suffering! —
So for the nonce I am riveted to Paris, where it goes with me meanwhile as dolefully as possible. Just to mock my situation duly, within the last few days I was set the following trial. A Russian General, director of the Imperial theatre, came here and laid these two alternatives before me: either to go to Petersburg next September, remain there all the winter, produce my Tannhäuser, conduct grand concerts, be guaranteed 50,000 fr. for it, and receive the half at once in cash: or nothing at all! — Each combination proposed by me, to fit in with the performance arranged for the same time here, was declared impossible. To next year my General would have nothing to say. Everything reposed on the jealous, but well-meaning plan of a Russian friend, who wants to carry me off from Paris to St. Petersburg, and hates Paris! — Well, friend: this time the free will spoke a word for itself; so purely and entirely for money I could not sell myself. I remained true to Paris, shouldered the untold misery of my Parisian existence down to the period of the performances of my opera (of drawing the smallest profit from which I cannot even dream now, without annulling every favourable omen), and journeyed back to my Newton-street.
Now, this street is soon to be sunk 35 metres deeper, to bring it to a level with the Boulevard piercing it. This ghastly circumstance affords me the opportunity of relieving my present position by cancelling my lease, which must be granted me, in fact, with a little compensation. From next October I shall therefore rent a smaller lodging in town, much nearer to the Opéra, at like time abandoning all idea of peace and comfort, as I really shall have to bid goodbye to the Muse for a good long while. When I established myself in this last little house I had absolutely nothing else in mind, with Paris too, than to resume my work soon, and be able to live in peace and quiet for it. Only when I mean to call and bind the Muse, however, do I seriously think of furnishing my house with rest and snugness: when I give her up, all that sort of thing has no longer any sense for me. If I have to do business, to fag myself out and come home half dead, then the narrowest nook suffices to give me rest. For this rest is something far inferior to the rest for creating. As I am not working at present, everything that looks like needlessness oppresses me; and if ever I give up all hope of meeting the Muse again, some people will be astonished how little I need in that other rest! —
And now, what glorious copper-plates have come into my house! Ah, children — what bitter tears run down my cheeks at times! Yes, I too, believe me! I too have yearned for the rest of a noble enjoying —: yet that will ne'er be granted me! Rest for creating, or rest for dying: in this sense alone, I know it, is rest allowed me. Yet how good, that the Noble really supplements itself: what I cannot, that should ye; and what ye taste ye taste for me, and in you I too enjoy it. This rest is the best activity bestowed on you. So win it wholly, my beloved friend, and grapple it to your heart: open wide your brow, and through the noble things that you behold and taste, reach out an undimmed hand to me!
Thus I greet these splendid pictures: in my eyes they are the graceful shadow-outline of the sunny joy you have received: by them you prove to me the noble, world-dissevered happiness that Rome has given you both. How thankfully I take the thoughtful gift! And now farewell for to-day! Greet the wife and children. May you all, refreshed and well, have re-trod Cisalpine soil by now. Ever with loyal thanks
Your
Richard Wagner.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to Wesendonck et al., trans. and indexed by William Ashton Ellis (Grant Richards, 1899), No. 25