My Dear Old Friend!
A line at last to you, of whom I have so often thought, at once in joy and suffering. You poor, good fellow, who gave yourself such endless trouble to become a right-down Philistine, and yet now feel compelled to the most un-Philistine resolves! Could one conceive that a life is so quickly outlived! You dear, good people — you and your wife, the pair of you — what are you living through now, joy or pain? Both together! But that is right; Life is the principal thing, and life means to be joyful and sorrowful, to perceive, to feel, to act, to do and strive; and all this is not thinkable apart from joy and pain. How is it with your hearts, when you think of your Wilhelm? Are you bemoaning? Not so — for the dead alone should be lamented — and when one has a son so full of life as yours, one laughs with him and rejoices over him. Go, and leave the old mud to remain mud; is it so great a misfortune not to stay glued to it?
I live through a whole world-history each time I realize that the Heinerei is about to migrate to America; and truly, the whole history of the world is at the bottom of it! Yet how simple and natural such an event seems to us at times. When, at the end of June, I had returned to Paris from the country, Wilhelm came to visit me, an hour before my departure for Zurich. I found the healthy, brave young fellow more to my liking than ever, and was delighted with him. When he bluntly told me that there was nothing more to be done with Europe, that he was off to America, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters would follow him within two years, I thought it so natural and reasonable that I calmly took a pinch of snuff and said, "That's sensible!" Look you, that was a moment of world-history! Then all personal, petty, miserable consciousness of man stood still; and great, naked, and open lay at our feet the earth-ball which we call the world, while with one glance we understood the whole carpentry of this globe. But now too often this world-historical consciousness passes from me, and an unspeakable heartache seizes me at the thought, "The dear old Heines are going also to America!" Then I clench my fists and gnash my teeth, and even an unearthly curse escapes my lips! Still, before you go away, let us see one another once more; we will make a rendezvous, and I will keep it! That I promise you!! Enough of this!
My better half has reached me safe and sound. I went as far as Rohrschach, on the Lake of Constance, to meet her. The bird and dog have also come, and we are just settling down in a little abode. The magnificent Swiss air, the grand fresh Alpine scenery, a few staunch friends whom I have won here, the feeling of freedom, uncribbed activity, hearty pleasure in my work — all these things together make me and my good wife gay, and I think that this merry mood may bring forth much that is worthy and good. Should we be in bad humour? No, even my wife cannot, after the recent proofs that we have had of human nobleness; if they be few in number, yet they are of the right sort, and we have learnt them at the right time; and thus it is that the worst time is often the best. Devil take it! we shall not starve; if it comes to the worst, I shall write to my patron, your Wilhelm in America, and tell him to get me some kind of post, as the last of the German Mohicans; then you shall pack us up with you, and we will all sail off together. If I still hold on with all my roots to Europe, it is because I have work to do here, and with all my mind's weapons; but I cannot yet bring my heart to agree that a portion of these weapons should be forged in the French tongue, and it is at bottom a mad suggestion that I, of all people, should compose a French opera-book. Every one who indulges me with his intimate sympathy must understand that. My repugnance is boundless, for it is really nothing but a question of gaining fame; and at whose hands this fame? Great heavens! only of good-for-nothings, not of honest, sensible folk! Well, we shall see!
At the moment, I look upon it as my duty to satisfy an inner necessity, which impels me to speak out once for all, clearly and definitely, about our whole practice of Art. There is already in the press in Paris and Leipzig a short treatise of mine: Art and Revolution. Presently a second essay will follow this: The Art-work of the Future, which will finally be concluded by a third: The Art-workers of the Future. When you make their acquaintance, dear friend, you will understand, I hope, that not from outside influence, but from deepest inner need, I have evolved to what I am, and now proclaim the views I hold. It seems to be the fancy of you all, that everything which has failed to please you in myself, and that, owing to the tendencies of the age in general and to my nature in particular, you have not been able to explain at once, must be set down to the evil influence of another. The premisses of my creed, as you had known them from my works and from my views, you admitted to be right, but drew back in terror from the logically necessary conclusions from these premisses. In this you all were wrong, just as our whole so-called cultured world is wrong, when it will not allow B, after it has admitted A. But this B demands both courage and conviction firm-set as a rock; and these two have nowhere a sure seat: hence we may explain the present sorry outcome of great inceptions. Do you think that my conviction will part me from my artistic production? Quite the opposite. For since I have clearly seen that our whole public art is no Art, but only art-journeymanship, that it, with all the foundations on which it is built, must go unpitied to the devil — only since then have I at last found true joy in art-work, in that art-work which shall spring of itself, by natural laws, from the Future; and at which, for my own part, recognizing its conditionments, I now can and will toil with liking and with love. This process, dear friend, comes not about by eating of oysters and delicacies, in comfortable sofa-corners; but on the broadest market-place of life must one first sharpen his teeth by biting stones, ere the eye shall become as clear as the inner nature of this eye permits. For this reason brother Fischer — to whom I now write through you, inasmuch as I pray you in my name to greet him with a fervent brother-kiss, for he has given me the great joy of at last, and of his own accord, proffering me his brothership — brother Fischer, whom, as he is now my brother, and this is permitted among brethren, I ought properly to call an old fool for refusing brothership before on no other ground than because our "position" (!!) did not allow it — brother Fischer, then, will shake his head violently and suspiciously when he hears of these my latest views on Art. Yet do you assure him, the dear, good, honest brother Fischer, that these latest views are throughout but the old ones, only that they are clearer, less bedizened, and therefore more humanized. He can't help being glad when he once more sees something of my thoughts — how clear, precise, comprehensible, and reasonable the whole thing shall look; for my public of the Future cannot be composed of the clever and would-be-clever ennuyés of our privileged art-world of the day, but of all sound, uncrippled men, who have as valiant a heart in their body as brother Fischer himself has. (I don't, of course, refer to you with my "uncrippled"; I hope you will credit me with sufficient delicacy of feeling not to have wished to play upon your one-toned chime of bells.)
Look now, good little Heinemann, we have fallen upon our old ways, as though nothing had happened, and it seems to me as if we were our same old incorrigible selves! So shall it be, and so remain! If the new comes forth from myself, yet, at the bottom, it is ever the old, only made young again and beautified; but if the new comes from without to disturb us, we thrust it on one side as well as we can; and if nothing else is possible, at least we reach our hands to one another across the ocean, even if you must needs stand a wee bit on tiptoe. When you go to America, who knows but that I may meet you from Kamtschatka, through which country I may have got myself smuggled from Siberia, as soon as the Russians have opened up the route. You must then welcome me, and not, as an American Republican, disown me because, forsooth, I come to you in the ragged uniform of the Saxon Court!
But meanwhile, so long as we yet remain so near to one another in Europe, we must hear one another reasonably often, if only by letter. So send me a right good letter, and tell brother Fischer that he must also write me a hotch-potch of everything that occurs to him, just as though we were chumming together in the evening over our herring-pickle. That is the right thing, and has the genuine homely scent.
One thing more: greet Krieten for me, and give him a good hand-grip; do you hear? He belongs to those who in these latter times have taught me more and more to love mankind.
Greet also X.; I understand and value him, although he may think his love of me a fault.
And your good wife, and Marie — greet them from me and my good wife, to the best of all your might; for I mean it all and heartily. Greet Müller too, and tell him all about me. And now farewell; keep a stout heart; you have good reason to, for many are worse off than you, and they have no Wilhelm — to whom I pray you commend my most obedient service, by letter. Fare you well, and hold me dear.
Your
Richard.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to His Dresden Friends, Theodor Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine, trans. J. S. Shedlock (Scribner & Welford, 1890), No. 162