O, you Man! Homo terribilis (Lin. ii. 53).
I really expected to find a good long letter here from you, as you promised in your last note, which I answered from Meiringen: now I find only a few lines on business. Well, I will not do much more than answer your questions, as my head, owing to the journey and especially to the heat, is all of a whirl. So:
I cannot imagine that they were copies which Hähnel sent to Schindelmeisser: I thought these were the original Dresden designs on loan; so I meant Hähnel should ask for them back at once, as they were now wanted in Leipzig. Naturally, if he has the originals in his possession, there is no further need of the Wiesbaden copies, and Hähnel may now see how he can get paid for them there. So to Leipzig, new copies for nine thalers, to be paid by the director. Full stop!
The Dresden and Leipzig scores of the Dutchman will probably agree, but if there is a difference anywhere, let the Dresden be followed, with the exception of what I have lately changed, especially in the overture. When will Liszt have the score?
From sheer good-nature I will add a line or two about my journey. The gem of it all was the march over the Gries glacier, from Wallis, through the Formazza valley to Domodossola, which occupied me two days. The Gries is a magnificently wild glacier pass, a very dangerous one, and traversed at rare intervals by people from the Hasli valley or Wallis, who bring southern goods (rice, etc.) from the Italian valleys. For the first time on my journey there was mist on the glacier heights (over 8,000 feet), so that my guide had difficulty in finding a path over the cold walls of snow and rock. But the descent! leading down gradually from the grisly ice-regions, through many a sloping valley, through all the range of vegetation of northern Europe, into the intense luxuriance of Italy! I was quite intoxicated, and laughed like a child, as I passed out of chestnut groves through meadows, and even cornfields, completely covered with vine trellises (for that is how the vine is generally cultivated in Italy), so that I often wandered under a covering of vine similar to our verandahs, only extended over whole acres, on which, again, everything grows that the soil can produce. And then the ever-enchanting variety of form of mountain and valley, with the most delightful cultivation, charming stone houses, and all through the valley a fine race of men. Well, I cannot describe it all, but I promise you to go again over the Gries glacier with you.
My first Italian conversation was grand. I could not, for the life of me, remember what milk is called in Italian, because this word, as you know, never occurs in Italian opera, from which I have gathered all my knowledge of the language. Soon I became quite a Vestri; and if you recall that hot-blooded sun of the south, you will have a good likeness of me. From Domodossola I went on in the evening by a "return-carriage" to Baveno on Lago Maggiore.
This drive crowned the day. I was in a happy frame of mind when I at last passed out of the wilds into unchequered beauty. Unfortunately the next day those rascals of men (Menschenkanaille) disturbed my calm reflections: on the steamer, full of Italian Philistines — not bad specimens either — poor fowls and ducks (which were being transported) were so vilely tortured and left to the most cruel privations, that the revolting unfeelingness of the men who had this sight constantly before their eyes again filled me with violent anger. To know that one would be merely laughed at if one attempted to interfere!!
But, dear friend, my opinion of the human race is ever becoming gloomier; I cannot help almost feeling that this species must inevitably go to ruin.
Here in Lugano again it is divine; but my loneliness torments me frightfully. Herwegh has not come (he is now full of worry), and so I have written to my wife to come with Peps. The Frankfort Tannhäuser must provide me the money for this piece of extravagance.
Härtels, to whom I had addressed myself about getting multiple copies of the manuscript of the Nibelungen dramas, answered me lately, among other things, definitely declaring that it would afford them the greatest pleasure and honour if I would hand over this work to them for publication when ready; indeed, that I need not think of any one else but them. Well, there's plenty of time for that!
I am not thinking for the moment about resuming work: my head, especially with this heat, will not yet bear any continuous strain. One more interesting note: on the Faulhorn I ate roast chamois, but in the Formazza valley roast marmot; I don't know whether Rausse forbids both. Do look it up! Greetings at home, and soon write something decent to Zurich!
Farewell.
R. W.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to His Dresden Friends, Theodor Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine, trans. J. S. Shedlock (Scribner & Welford, 1890), No. 70