Best Friend,
I received all your letters, and thank you for them most cordially. Don't insist on a regular correspondence with me, and be assured that you will thereby spare yourself much sorrow. But write often! It then will be possible for you from time to time to nurse agreeable imaginings about my lot, which you would have to recognise as wrong at once if I wrote you often. Brief and true! It is always the old, old story — also the old illusion, that something might turn out well at last!
The Weimar festival was of absolutely no importance: only Liszt was very charming, and his hospitality, which I shared with half musical Germany, delightful. But rather too many people. It would often happen that I had to relate the whole history of my life to some fresh person each half-hour. For the most part ridiculous! Everywhere little talent, much foolishness. Music often very bad. Liszt's Faust, however, altogether excellent. Thus, always what the few alone can do. The crowd a mere disturbance.
Well, here I sit waiting for the return of a tenor-voice into the throat of my projected Tristan-singer. Ander — my tenor — after a three-months' hoarseness, hasn't recovered control of his voice yet, is afraid of losing it completely, particularly if he has to practise such a trying rôle as Tristan this winter. To admit the truth a little to myself, I can but think the execution of my project impossible for this winter. Thus do things stand! You may therefore judge the bliss in which I hover here, where I simply do not know which way to turn. Whether and how help can be obtained, is more than doubtful, and in the few hours that belong to me I take counsel with myself as to what is to be decided on. For the moment I can hit on no way out at all.
From Paris I hear absolutely nothing. What am I there? Silence everywhere else, and nothing left me but the heartiest surfeit and loathing of all I do and ply! [...]
It is not appointed me, to scrape through lightly. So I again am living both dearly and miserably at once. God knows what a fix I am in! Indeed the most sensible thing would be, for a gentle end soon to be put to me! The world is thoroughly contrary to me.
Was I right not to write to you? What will you hear, saving trouble? The malady has become so chronic with me, that it probably can never be cured. I lack all footing: not even with one toe do I stand firm. Let us leave the misery! [...]
Child — see very black indeed, when you look at me, and you'll always see me in the true light! Then — perhaps I shall be able to console you, for once in a way, with a brighter letter. Adieu! A thousand deep-felt thanks for your friendship!
Your
R. W.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to Wesendonck et al., trans. and indexed by William Ashton Ellis (Grant Richards, 1899), No. 49