Dear Old Friend,
It is certainly right wrong of me not yet to have answered your January letter. I will not excuse myself by saying that I have been too deeply engrossed in my work, but I must confess that for me, in my own peculiar mood, it was most difficult to write to you; for your news of yourself was of a kind to fill me with sighing and heaviness, but not with the strength to console you. By chance I learn now that you are still in Berlin, that your connection with the theatre will not be definitely fixed until the new management starts, and a report gives me reason to hope that you are in better spirits than at first.
Now I should so much like to know how things are with you, and I say this chiefly in the hope of hearing something more favourable than was the case with your last letter. That is the real occasion of these lines. May I not be deceived in my hope of at least tolerable news. I cannot trust myself to say more concerning your state as last described by you: I could, as I said, only sigh, so mournful was everything, and so powerless did I feel to help you!
With me it fares both well and ill: it is only a matter of the moods into which I am thrown, which with me naturally fluctuate violently, like ebb and flow. My own courage I never completely lose; I am so far at one with myself and the moods of the world, that I can explain to myself why everything is just as it is; and as it never occurs to me to wish to reverse the nature of things, so I wait where I recognize my own powers of activity avail not; but where I see that my activity might have any success, I grapple with all my available force, and content myself with the smallest result. I have thus the conscious knowledge of doing what I can, and, on the other hand, of calmly giving up that which I must give up. Thus I maintain myself now in sounder health than, for example, was the case last year. That I often have bad times is easily understood; but I am in all respects candid beyond measure; I complain when I have occasion to complain, and rejoice when I have reason for joy. Our dear little Papo died this winter; I put no restraint on my heartfelt, bitter mourning for the sad loss of our little whistling, chattering household fairy, that clung to me with such endless love. With this open-heartedness I have at least won this much, that I am no longer surprised at any outward misfortune; a dash of irony also helps me over all such things — for I know that it cannot be otherwise.
As for money, it so happens with me that whenever my purse is dry and Minna already begins to look black, straightway a fresh supply comes in. This is how it comes about: I have few friends, but these few love me; any one of them who can, always does help me. The most active in this respect is Frau R. in Dresden; from time to time Liszt also does his share. I live in completely communistic fashion, but only with those who fully know me, and are heartily devoted to me. From no one else would I take a penny. So understand me well: only one who respects and loves me would I permit to help support me. Now and then, too, I earn a trifle. This winter I have written a fairly large book: Oper und Drama. J. J. Weber was willing to pay 100 thalers; A. offered 75 thalers more after the sale of 400 copies, so it will shortly be published by the latter. You have probably heard, and especially read, something about Lohengrin recently. Breitkopf & Härtel are now engraving the pianoforte score of it, and probably will publish the full score later. This will bring me no money, but merely wipe off a c——d old debt to that firm. Do you see? I am even paying off debts: what more do you want? During the winter I practised here a few of Beethoven's Symphonies, with a mixed orchestra of amateurs and professionals. The thing got talked about: now they are about to engage for me a good standing orchestra. I declined to have anything to do with the theatre. But shortly a pamphlet of mine will appear under the title, Ein Theater in Zürich, in which I shall open people's eyes a bit, and show them what they should do, if they wish to have anything of value. You shall soon receive the pamphlet.
In May I set to the composition of Siegfried. For a change I shall sometimes climb the Alps. Ah! if no one would pity me any more on account of my loss of my Dresden position! How little they know me, who look upon this loss as my misfortune! Were I amnestied to-day, and were I again appointed Chief Court Capellmeister at Dresden, you would see how calmly I should remain in my Switzerland, and perhaps scarcely even put my feet on the blessed soil of the German confederacy! Yes, that is how I feel! Herewith I give you good news of myself: as to my gloomy days, I can the rather keep silence, as they mostly come from overwork and nervous exhaustion; for then I certainly look with an eye of despair on the wretchedness of the present order of things. But is one not lucky enough if able from time to time to conquer these moods? So now give yourself the trouble to write something good about yourself, and let your Wilhelm serve as theme — your living, moving work, far better than my paper works. Give me good news then: greet wife and child, and keep me in kind remembrance.
Your
Richard W.
Peps is still alive, but fearfully lazy whenever he is not barking.
Source: Richard Wagner's Letters to His Dresden Friends, Theodor Uhlig, Wilhelm Fischer, and Ferdinand Heine, trans. J. S. Shedlock (Scribner & Welford, 1890), No. 166