Dear Friend,
That you are all dead and buried I will not believe, for even the Krebs-fever does not bring about death so speedily; that you have suddenly given me up, after being convinced that nothing could be done with me, I will not fear, for I should, in any case, have expected from your fine sense of decorum that you would have given me knightly warning of the termination of our friendship. Long before now, also, I had expected a letter from K., at any rate, as a polite answer to mine, sent to him four weeks ago. I am astonished! I can only think of one cause of hindrance. I told you to write directly to me here, under my own name. Has it appeared necessary to the authorities to open and keep back your letters? It is possible; and for that reason I write to you to-day, so as to get an explanation. Awaiting this, I will make use of these lines to tell you something really good about myself.
What appears to us as chance — and what, after all, in relation to us personally is only chance — often shapes itself in a wonderfully coherent manner, and often stirs and completes to an extraordinary degree our inner being. So is it with the chances of my present stay in Paris. I had never conquered my very deep aversion to a Parisian opera-expedition. Yet you know from my last Zurich letters the view which I at last took of the matter, and which decided me for a time to think with enthusiasm of my projected Parisian activity. Oh, what joy is it now to me to perceive how my better nature, and everything outwardly connected with it, revolted in so commanding a manner against these bungling plans, that its decisive victory has preserved me from endless bitter consequences, annoyance, and trouble of all sorts! Its first veto was declared by my illness, which was, for the most part, the result of melancholy. Just as I am fresh and eager for all undertakings into which I can throw my whole soul, so was I sad and slow when Paris was the subject. Nothing would succeed with me. With endless trouble I forced myself to my Wiland; it always sounded to me like "comment vous portez-vous?" — the ink wouldn't flow, the pen scratched: without was bad dull weather. Think of me arriving at Paris in this state of mind. Paris would never have come into my head again had it not been for Liszt's secretary, Belloni, who undertook to look after all squabbles and pettifogging affairs, for which naturally he was to have some day his share of profit. In November of last year this Belloni asks me for the scores of the Rienzi and Tannhäuser overtures: in obedient fashion I send them. At the beginning of December he informs me that these overtures are taken up by a new concert society — Union Musicale — in competition with the mouldering Conservatoire concerts, and that they are to be performed in the course of the winter; he would let me know the dates. At the same time he announces to me that he means to go, towards the end of December, to Liszt, at Weimar, but that he will be back again in Paris by the 15th of January. So I, of course, calculated the time of my journey to be at latest the end of January. I announced this to you, and fixed my departure. In the middle of January I receive a letter from Liszt, in which he summons me, in the most glowing terms and with confidence of victory, to start for Paris: he certainly did not mention Belloni, but I had a right to suppose that his sudden impulse to write to me had been arranged by agreement with Belloni, who I thought was with him — or, rather, on his road back to Paris. Good! I arrive in Paris, and the first thing I learn is, that Belloni had just started off for Weimar, but that Liszt had known nothing of this projected visit of his secretary. If in all this Parisian business, as poet and composer, I was to be the head, so was my skilful, indefatigably able and experienced Belloni to be the whole rest of the body. Well, this amiable Belloni has not yet returned to Paris. I beg you will realize the meaning of this communication! Never mind! I was in such an excellent frame of mind, and was so burning with desire to celebrate my heart-nuptials with Paris, that I thought of my projected literary writing for Paris: the possibility of finding no translator who would venture to reproduce my things in French did not deter me — my desire was too great, for I knew my Dresden friends were watching with eager delight for my first Paris scandal, with which they might be able to box the ears of my Dresden enemies, to their own great personal satisfaction, and as an excuse for their lasting friendship towards me. Then one morning an agent of the Ministry of the Interior walked into my room. For full an hour he took down what I had to say about my aims in Paris, and when he was quite convinced that I only intended writing music of the most innocent kind according to use and custom — pas de deux, and the like — he gave me his blessing, encouraged me to devote myself with true zeal to art, and as he was indeed in a paternal mood he whispered in my ear some patriarchal warnings closely connected with the packing up of my trunk. I learned later that this well-meaning man was an enthusiastic admirer of Meyerbeer. At that time I saw, too, for the first time, Le Prophète — the prophet of the new world. I felt happy and exalted; cast aside all rummaging plans, which seemed profane to me; as, indeed, the pure, noble, most holy Truth together with divine Humanity already lives so directly and warmly in the blessed present. Do not blame me for this change of opinion. He who strives for the cause alone should hold fast to no prejudice, but willingly let go all false principles as soon as he perceives that they were suggested to him only through personal vanity. When genius comes and drives us into other paths, an enthusiast willingly yields, even though he feel himself incapable of accomplishing anything in these paths. I see, I become a fanatic when I recall that evening of revelation. Forgive me!
From the only other quarter whence I learn something about you, I have just received a letter which has completely cut me short. The beautiful state of transport into which I had fallen has passed away; and, sobered down, I proceed, in order quickly to close (why? you will hear).
So, my Parisian art-wallowings are given up since I recognized their profane character. Heavens, how Fischer will rejoice when he hears I have become a man of order! Everything strengthened me in my ardent desire for renunciation. After endless waiting, I at last receive the orchestral parts of my Tannhäuser overture, and pay with pleasure fifteen francs' carriage for them. I then find that the parts have arrived much too soon, for the Union Musicale has time for everything except for the rehearsal of my overtures. I am, however, told that there may be rehearsals at the end of this month, and actually under a conductor who, in all the performances given under his direction, carries out the happy idea of indicating tempi, nuances, style in a manner quite different from that intended by the composer; and, with passionate conscientiousness, insists on studying and conducting himself, without ever allowing the composer to expound his confused views about his own work. Rocked in blissful dreams, I receive at last a letter of Heine's, with an enclosure from Wigand — namely, a money-order for ten louis d'or, which, from your letter, I had unfortunately expected would come to twenty louis d'or.
In short, early to-morrow morning (at eight o'clock) I start off, with the intention of being back here at the end of the month, for the possible rehearsals of my overture.
I am sorry for Heine and Fischer. Poor fellows! they picture me floating along on a sea of Parisian hopes; they will be greatly and painfully undeceived. Salute and console them. When my cursed ill-humour of to-day has passed away, I will write to Heine. To his fidelity must I present an earnest face. A thousand greetings to my dear R.'s, from whom I should so much have liked to receive a line. The merchant M., of Dresden, will bring you something from me when he returns from his great Parisian business trip; a good daguerreotype copy from an excellent portrait, which my friend Kietz has taken of me here.
What more shall I write? I am all confusion about my hasty departure. I have now only to write the verses to my Wiland; otherwise the whole poem is finished — German, German! How my pen flew along! This Wiland will carry you all away on its wings, even your friendly Parisian hopes. If K. does not write soon, I shall presume that he is raving too madly about Krebs. Krebs is clever — so is Michalesi — what more do you want? But K. should restrain himself, and not give himself away so much as he does, as with me! Farewell! Another time you will receive a more sensible letter, with a list of misprints in my last book. If people do not comprehend me, even after this work, if I am charged with improprieties, I clearly see the reason: one cannot understand my writings for the misprints. To my joy, some one is playing the piano overhead; but no melody, only accompaniment, which has a charm for me, in that I can practise myself in the art of finding melodies. Adieu! Bon jour! Comment vous portez-vous? Agréez l'assurance de la plus haute considération, avec laquelle j'ai l'honneur d'être
Votre tout dévoué serviteur,
Richard Vagner.
"Kunst und Klima" appears in the Stuttgart Deutsche Monatsschrift, in the March, or, at latest, in the April number. The article is important.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to His Dresden Friends, Theodor Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine, trans. J. S. Shedlock (Scribner & Welford, 1890), No. 10