My Dear Anton!
Where shall I begin, in order to find some starting-point for taking counsel with you about my life's affairs? — I feel in this matter that I can have recourse only to an old and trusted friend, and therefore I am choosing you because I may assume that I shall not have to go back too far, in order to be understood in a friendly spirit.
I have reached the point where I can really no longer endure my life under the circumstances that prevail. The clearest proof of that is the fact that my work — the only thing in the world which has still kept me steadfast — is no longer successful. As a creative artist standing out entirely beyond my time, and with a most original type of activity, I find myself in a generation that is utterly strange to me: only the most attentive personal encouragement, which would hold me fast in very close and intimate surroundings, could keep me in vigorous condition for my task.
For this, I lack two things: family and fortune.
Whoever has sympathetically witnessed my frequent and manifold efforts to supply — artificially, I might say — without family and without fortune, the peace of mind and composure necessary for my work, will have to admit that I have troubled myself in vain, to avoid the only way out: this, in everyone's opinion, would be a new marriage with a suitable wife of sufficient wealth. There is really nothing objectionable about this advice except that its realization under present conditions is — impossible. The wish to induce my present wife, in her extremely hazardous state of health, to consent to a divorce from me would indeed be an inhuman undertaking and one for which I could scarcely summon up courage. To be sure, an extenuating motive is advanced to silence my scruples somewhat; namely, to give my wife the impression that the divorce has been considered necessary as a result of my needy outward position and not because of any actual desire of my heart. This is of course the point which now urgently merits the most serious consideration. Since my return to Germany, since the disappointment of every hope on which my personal position depended, and since the knowledge that there would be receipts from my work only at very infrequent intervals, and then without any telling when — receipts which always suffice just to mitigate the most extreme calamities that break out in periods of complete lack of income, but never offer any sufficient basis for an untroubled life of peace in the future; and since therefore I'm obliged by every kind of experience to conclude that I'm incapable of maintaining a home, without regular and assured income, such as could be guaranteed me by a satisfactory salary (for I'm entirely without means), but I've no prospect at all of such a salary, in any form whatever, and all this in my 51st year of life — so indeed must I ask myself, finally, what will come of this all, how shall I exist any longer — entirely apart from the consideration of how, under the constant pressure of this situation, I shall ever begin to find the mood for work, which after all can be my only means of earning money? While I reserve for a more convenient time — should it ever be requested — the proof of how even such unexpected events as the connexions I formed in Petersburg have turned out in the long run to be entirely unproductive; furthermore, how even the most strenuous enterprises, extremely detrimental to my health, such as the great concerts I attempted some time ago in various cities, have failed completely, because of their costliness, to offer any adequate and lasting profit — I now affirm only this one thing; namely, that I must frankly admit how incapable I feel any longer of gaining my subsistence, particularly since I feel, amid the ever fruitless attempts at this, that my health and interest in life are truly menaced in a fatal way. Hence, it would be the unexaggerated truth if I were to declare to my wife that I am no longer able to support her, since for my own self I should have to take thought how to find shelter with a family in a way that would put me to the least possible expense for my own living; that for this reason I am no longer able to maintain either a home for myself or the one for her which until now I had hoped always to provide her.
Thus the frank truth would unfortunately be known, without any sparing, and now I must admit it, since in the last few days I have come to the end of the results of the most incredible efforts that I employed during the past winter on all imaginable sides in order to procure any favourable assurances at all: these results — especially in view of the financial disasters in Russia whose influence was so fatal for me — have amounted entirely to — Nothing!
Therefore — considering everything dispassionately and from a worldly view-point — one might, disregarding the incompatibility otherwise existing between us, expect my wife to make the sacrifice of renunciation, for the sake of my external well-being and hence also the possibility of ensuring her own existence suitably, whereas to refuse this would spell the ruin of our outward existence without being of any advantage to our domestic relations. Thus she would find reassurance in having made this sacrifice not particularly for the sake of my inward happiness (which might be painful and disgraceful for her), but for the good of my, as well as her own, outward position.
I cannot hold out very much against the attentive friends who have demonstrated all this to me, since experience shows that similar situations in life have often been adjusted in a like way with the best consequences. But I am restrained chiefly out of consideration for my wife's state of health from approaching her in full earnest with a demand of this kind: I must ask myself whether she has been matured by the experiences of the last few years to the point of knowing how gradually to take a clear account of her relation to me, and whether she could take into calm consideration the question of any further continuance of the same with reasonable peace? I cannot decide this, and so I still have to give way to the unendurable assumption that if she should only be goaded on to rage in such a case, she might quickly succumb to this rage and her illness. Therefore, I cannot make up my mind to make this final demand of her in definite earnest.
On the other hand, however, I remain filled with hesitant doubts before the proposed solution of making a new marriage. Among all the women of my occasional acquaintance, there is none whom I should perchance have had in view — particularly in the sense required here. The woman whom I should have to thank for any very desirable and beneficial change of my position, on the other hand, can and very probably will exist, but — I don't know her. (This I tell you at once in order to allay any doubts regarding the character and perhaps secret inclination of the statements made here.) Hence, the woman who could suit my needs would really first have to be sought for. — After all, it would be a great piece of luck to meet her. My necessary requirements are cultivation of heart and mind; an age which would suit my own and therefore cause me no embarrassment in the future; and true independence, with means sufficient for that, so that I should be completely above the need of actually "making money," in addition to which is included the matter of properly taking care of my divorced wife by this means. Now I have become conscious, through sufficient and strangely flattering experiences up to the present time, that soulful feminine natures cling to me easily to the point of wildest adoration and through this become capable of the most extreme surrender. With the attention — almost surprising, in a time as material as ours — that is paid to the considerable profession of artist, and with the certain spell of a famous name, it remains easily to be expected — according to frequent experience in this — that I, who enjoy both of these things (in an unfruitful way!), should not find it difficult, in spite of my poverty and the fact that I no longer am in the prime of life, still to make a so-called "good match." And if this were truly a "rich match," then perhaps the sole possibility would be opened to me of having the difficult performance of my newer works — and as a result, highly important artistic consequences — definitely take place. To be sure, such possibilities, combined with all the comforting prospects of a completely domestic life, have an attractive effect on my imagination, and perhaps I'm not to be blamed if often it is only with a deep sigh that I turn away from this and consider my sad, entirely forlorn position!
But now I must fix my mind on this again. I cannot suppose that any such favourable possibility will be fulfilled, and I must not even think seriously of giving rise to it. — My present situation urgently forbids me to watch any longer or to leave things to chance occurrences and encounters, but I must take steps to alter matters thoroughly. My resources are completely exhausted: the residence which — out of need for seclusion and quietness — I established here a year ago at considerable expense, since I put confidence in the favourable prospects revealed to me in Petersburg and expected them to last for some time, must now be entirely given up, in conformity with the latest state of my affairs, not only because its maintenance proves too expensive under every circumstance, but because I, with an exact knowledge of my position, must decide to give up the whole idea of any personal, independent establishment. I see myself therefore obliged to look round for a refuge — in the fullest sense of the word. I have already repeatedly discovered how difficult it is for me to find such refuge, capable of any permanence. My only true purpose is to find undisturbed peace for work, and this can be achieved only in the home of a wealthy family well-disposed towards me. I have not been able to find this family anywhere, since difficulties of the most delicate nature stand in the way of my choice and its acceptance. However, since my solitude, the complete detachment of my position in society, has in general increased my need of a "family" to the most painful yearning, my own family has come close to my heart for some time past — especially since I have come in contact again with them, after a long interruption — as the most natural bosom to be admitted to. Some very beloved members of this family have now settled in Dresden. My good sister Luise Brockhaus, with her husband and her daughters, of whom the two youngest are dearly attached to me, have, as I've been told, established a very pleasant joint residence in the neighbourhood of the Linkisch Bad where there will certainly be a quiet room for "Uncle" and where I would surely be received cordially. It would certainly require but one word from me to see my wish met with the kindest invitation: as soon as I am sure of peace and pleasant domestic company, my personal needs are trifling and my mode of living simple and moderate. The small additional expense which I would cause in a well-managed household could be covered every time by my slight receipts, and I know that I should be no trouble to anyone.
But this would be — in Dresden! There where my wife also is staying! — Now what a painful situation I'm in again, when it comes to carrying out this quite natural plan of living that is so conveniently at hand!
Now some means of adjustment must positively be found. But what? I try to take counsel with myself in this; and because I can come to no decision, I am turning to the friend to whom I should so gladly like to bring myself as well, by this step. In order to enjoy the advantage of the company of my good kind family, for the present, must I finally decide — to live with my wife after all?? Many things warn me against this solution: nevertheless, the hopeful heart does not leave off seeking for some possibility here that may be endurable. Truly, I do not cherish any especially personal dislike for my poor wife; I feel so forlorn and lonesome in this world that I, tired and in want of peace as I am, even resigned in my inmost heart, have often thought with emotion of a domestic reconciliation with her who has had to wade through the thick and thin of life with me. Now I also imagine that finally, because of the seriousness of my separation from her, she might come to her senses, as far as that is possible for her, and to some extent be enlightened as to how to deal with me in the future. She would have to learn to keep peace with my family; that would be certain. But perhaps she will really learn that? — Tell me, dear friend, what do you think?
In case I should return to my wife, the whole desperate consideration will at once arise again: "On what shall we live?" I have endeavoured to send her a thousand thalers a year thus far: for the quarterly payment of 250 thalers which is now due, I have, as you know, applied to Petersburg, and hope that this comparatively small amount will duly arrive. But it is the end. I haven't the least prospect of anything certain in the future. I have now made it my strict duty to reckon no longer on receiving anything by chance, and to arrange as though I were entirely poor, wherefore I will and must contrive a position in which living will actually cost nothing to me — completely destitute as I am — and any amount of money I really receive shall be considered a pure case of good fortune and shall be turned over to my benefactors. This poverty is natural to me, and since I am what I am, I have a right to be proud of it: so I would in no way deny or conceal it. But now how to make ends meet in my own home? Above all, we should have to take a lodging that is even smaller and cheaper: quiet and remote, in a distant, unfashionable suburb, about the way the Heines live. The present home may mean something to my wife because she makes a little out of renting part of it. But this would cease. Therefore a reduction must be made here. But we always should need some sure thing for living: where should we get this? Under favourable conditions I finally can complete my Mastersingers; very probably this work will quickly become popular, and it can bring in good returns for me. But one can't count on this, and my life from month to month must not depend on such possibilities; for if I have no "good inspirations," then I have nothing to write down, and with continual worries I no longer have any good inspirations now. Therefore, if I don't wish — in case I should decide to return to my wife — to come at once upon new worries again, something really must be done to protect myself in advance. Then for this, one would, first of all, need to have a "good inspiration."
Thus it occurred to me the other day to wonder how it would be if someone like you, dear Anton, were to extend an invitation to the "wealthier of my friends" in Dresden (I'm told, really, that there I have very many friends, more than anywhere else!), to place at my disposal, by jointly raising a passable subscription, the means of removing to Dresden, to which I could, at the favourable moment, be invited. Thus it could have a really proper appearance which would not be compromising in any way. Or should arrangements for such a thing take place only on my hundredth birthday, for the purpose of erecting a monument? — It's just a thought, which I'm communicating to you. If it should come to pass, then at all events I'd be very much pleased, even honoured. Perhaps it all depends on making the test? Do you want to try it?
Then the following solution occurred to me — particularly as the next best expedient. I believe that my family would gladly take me in at once. Then I could not go to live with my wife until she would have a cheaper lodging, because I could on no account supply the deficit she would have this summer in her income from letting out her present lodgings. Therefore she might not object to my accepting the hospitality of my family for the present, until the fall when we would move into less expensive lodgings: thus a tolerable basis for appeasing her would be found, which would accord with the entire situation — and for the very near future I should have a simplified scale of living, under circumstances very agreeable to me.
Oh Lord! I have really written you so much that you certainly will scarcely have had the time to read it all at once. Above all, excuse me for taking up so much of your time! You yourself have to care for many people and your profession is very strenuous; therefore the increasing of your troubles is only to be excused by the very difficult position in which an old friend appeals to you. Certainly you will perceive that there is much in my statements which, under the circumstances, I could at best communicate only to you. If you should take this kindly to heart now, as indeed I have full reason to believe, judging by past experience, then my next request is that you first of all confer in the matter thoroughly with my family and above all with my good sister Luise (Brockhaus). You may discover her present address (which I would like to know precisely, in order to be able to write her) either where she lived formerly, near the Leipzig Railway Station, or at Wiesenthorstrasse, No. 7, three flights up, the former dwelling of my niece, Frau Clara von Kessinger. You would certainly do best to share this letter in detail with her. I have the greatest confidence in the outcome of the consultation of my loyal friend with my good relatives: and indeed I have need in every respect of such a support, since I do not consider myself as anything but entirely helpless now. But particularly the pleasant need, which grows ever stronger in me, of leaning on "family" life is now so great and plays such a part in my desires that without the assistance of this family, the right solution in this case would scarcely be found.
So do this! And let me bless you from my inmost soul for your loyal friendship!
I have come to a point where the most tempting prospects of things unknown and novel lose more and more their fascination for me, indeed, actually have no further meaning. My longing is for the familiar bosom of those belonging to me of old.
How simple it would be if my wife had not settled right in Dresden: there is no place which I would rather have as a refuge, at least for the present time, than with my relatives, and I believe they would soon like me well enough to be glad to have me with them always! But how difficult, how extremely difficult everything is for me! Once I had almost everything that I needed for making my whole future safe: everything was destroyed for me by the disgusting misunderstanding of this woman, so unfortunate and yet so deserving of pity, who now, strangely enough, again makes everything difficult for me by her mere existence! — Yet may she be forgiven!
Therefore: do all you possibly can! Give my regards to your dear wife and children! How glad I should be to come to you often again! — Cordially your
Grateful friend,
Richard Wagner
Source: The Letters of Richard Wagner to Anton Pusinelli, trans. and ed. Elbert Lenrow (Alfred A. Knopf, 1932), No. 32