My Good Heine,
You will be more than surprised to have had no letter from me for so long. The debt weighs heavily on my mind, and for a long time I have thought of paying it off. Latterly I really was uncertain as to whether you were still in Dresden, or already in Berlin: I waited therefore to receive news, and so the matter got delayed.
I will be honest, and tell you that for some time I would not write to you, because I knew not what I could write. The great infatuation of a section of my friends — however easily explained — is what has brought me into this state of deepest distraction and melancholy: it was that unfortunate urging of me to Paris. In the last months of the past year, I had already firmly resolved to give up the Paris plan entirely: but such a letter as yours, in which you suddenly painted so black a picture of my past and future, was quite enough to induce me, half in despair, to overthrow my resolution. You, Fischer, and all of you had only one thing before your eyes: the glories of Paris, of which you all knew absolutely nothing. Well, I looked at my wife, and saw that she also had the Parisian bee in her bonnet; so I then resolved — ill, very ill, as I was — to go to Paris in the devil's name, and indeed in the most excellent temper in the world. My stay in Paris is one of the most villainous things that I have ever experienced. Everything which I foretold and foresaw came literally to pass. My sketch for an opera-poem appeared ridiculous, and with good reason, to everybody who knew anything of the French language and the French Opera. The condition of this Opera itself, the Prophète, No. 5, and all impressions connected therewith, made me seem mad even to myself: and, finally, the impossibility of getting so much as an overture performed, my frightful disgust at the bankers' music, from which every decent person in Paris itself turns away — all this brought me, suffering as I was from terrible relaxation of the nerves, into a state of mind not quite the best fitted for my turning with apologetic explanations to those of my friends who were now probably expecting nothing but news of Parisian triumphs and successes. On the contrary, I had got so far that I held it fitter to break with heaven and earth; to which I saw myself more pressed each day. It was as though everything with which I had any closer ties were now conspiring to drive me to extremes. And I had really come to an extreme, for anything was preferable to continuing this life, to continuing with those who held that the very thing most repulsive to my nature was the best thing for me — who were all agreed that in theory one should be an honest fellow, but in practice a scoundrel!
Enough; that heavy time is over for me, the mephitic clouds of Paris have dispersed before me, and for the last two or three months I have been back again in my friendly, healthy Zurich, from which neither god nor devil shall drive me any more. So now once more I can look at you with the requisite cheerfulness, and say in peace that I heartily and willingly forgive you, if you laboured under a mistake with regard to me; while, on the other hand, I beg you to pardon me for so long withholding from your sympathy its corresponding nourishment. I was truly beside myself, and have now returned to myself — and this is the chief thing I wished to point out to you.
For the rest, I have nothing particular to tell you about myself. You know that Liszt has given my Lohengrin at Weimar. The performance is said to have been excellent in all secondary matters, but the principal thing — the actors on the stage — feeble and altogether unsatisfactory. Well, that explains itself; Providence will not work private miracles for me, neither will it make actors such as I want grow on every tree! Nevertheless, I am now thinking of writing the music to my Siegfried. In order one day to be able to produce it properly, I am cherishing all sorts of bold and out-of-the-way plans, to the realization of which nothing further is necessary than that some old uncle or other should take it into his head to die. Later on you shall hear more about it! If you feel inclined once again to read something of mine, get the last numbers of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik (Leipzig): the article "Das Judenthum in der Musik," by R. Freigedank, is mine.
From certain preparations which have been made for the purpose, it is possible that here in Zurich I may from time to time do a little active work for art. Also more of this later.
First of all, I am anxious for news about you, yours, and my old Fischer! May it be good news! In order that we may get into step once more, write to me soon, tell me much, greet your folk and Fischer in a proper manner, and keep me in kind remembrance.
Your
Richard W.
(Abendstern, in Enge.)
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to His Dresden Friends, Theodor Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine, trans. J. S. Shedlock (Scribner & Welford, 1890), No. 165