My Dear Good Old Friend!
At times when I am well stimulated, I have often felt the need of writing once again to you at great length. You know how I, for my part, have always wanted to come to Dresden on a visit: at times it was nearly arranged, but even the beginning of a little excursion for old time's sake always miscarried. To make this clear, I really need to proceed in biographical fashion, for little of my life can be understood so ex abrupto. Now we shall manage to find the right expedient, in this particular sense: at various periods, for about five years, I have been dictating my entire biography to one whose connexion with me is intimate above all others, and the last ten years are now all that are lacking. The true import of this dictated account will become evident to you from the provision which of necessity I have adopted: the dictated material itself could only be first published long after my death. Meanwhile, however, it has received too many clarifications for it not to seem very important to my friends to know, in advance, a document by means of which all the misrepresentations and calumnies — that circulate about me as they do about no one else — may be refuted. Lest such a manuscript meet with destruction, I am now about to have a small number of copies printed at my own expense. These in part shall be left to my family; nevertheless, I wish even during my lifetime to present a copy to you, and perhaps also to two younger, entirely trustworthy friends, naturally under the most faithful pledge never to let it leave yourself, nor to make it public after my death. On the other hand, it will be of service to these few persons right now, as a means of being able to contradict false assertions that may be advanced about my life (especially in absurd biographical sketches that appear now and then), through the fact that the rectifications that may seem necessary are to be gathered from my dictated account itself. Just now a proof-sheet has been delivered to me from the press which I am sending along to you with the most friendly regards.
This life of mine has had one chief circumstance in particular. Whoever looks over it carefully is bound to discover that throughout it only one need, one endeavour, has been expressed, namely: that of finding peace and tranquillity, and of being provided, by all means, with a bit of comfort, as is needful for artistic creation. On the other hand, the outward course of my life appears in such a guise now, that even the curious sort of person who is greedy in every way for adventure could not have appeared more turbulent and more subject to vicissitudes. The causes of this inconsistent appearance will soon be clearly evident to the attentive reader of my biography: they are of an ideal and a practical nature. In the former sense, they are to be found in my special art-tendencies, because I — precisely as a "composer of operas" — am confined to the most trivial concerns of art for my life's activities, and it is exactly here that I have in mind to realize an art-work which absolutely surpasses all superfluous kinds of art. The practical causes, on the other hand, point out two principal obstacles in my life: my absolute lack of means and my premature, very unsuitable marriage. The lack of means was in any case the worse of the two. Inherited wealth may be much or little, but it alone provides the independence necessary to the man who wishes to create something serious and genuine: with a purpose like mine, and particularly in the sphere of my activity, the necessity of earning the money for one's living is an entire curse. And the "many" and "great" have indeed discovered that, and have gone under as a result. I am convinced that the possession of even moderate means would have positively assured me of the externals of my life and would have kept all disquietudes far from me. Nevertheless, the complete opposite of this has also made me indifferent to the value of money, just as if I had known that I could never actually "earn" money for myself. As a consequence of this, along with my other "ideal" life-tendencies, I have had to suffer unspeakably.
You have lived to see, in my fortune with the young King of Bavaria, through what an extraordinary path of destiny I have at last succeeded, for the first time and when already in mature life, in winning a kind of compensation for my lack of property. It is also not entirely unknown that the advantage of this victory has brought upon me only fresh, entirely unheard-of disquietudes, first of all because of jealousy and through the entirely unusual circumstances of our relations. Only very gradually am I attaining the true benefits of this, of by all means converting the quite liberating assistance from this definite acquisition, in time, to the advantage of my life's goal. There will, however, always remain, over and above this, something extraordinarily difficult and distressing, that is based precisely on the character and lot of my royal friend who is otherwise indeed devoted to me with rare affection. — Only this one relationship has been fully satisfying and truly liberating, but on the other hand, it has carried along with it the most painful sufferings. If this had to occasion the greatest and most sorrowful sacrifices from me, there was indeed only one thing that compelled me to do all this: a deep, unshakable conviction. If my life thus far has thrown me aimlessly through storms, then my life's ship, before it reached the haven, had to undergo the most extreme hardships. Nevertheless — the haven has been won. And now for the first time I may still live gladly and joyfully. A beautiful strong son, with high forehead and clear eye, Siegfried Richard, will inherit his father's name and preserve his works for the world. — Forgive me, my friend, for having observed a discreet silence in this matter about one who, as long as only assurances could speak for him, must await the time when the deed that clearly acknowledges his position will speak for him. This time is no longer far off.
You have already long since been enlightened regarding your error about the betrothal of my niece, Doris Brockhaus: it occasioned from me (as such) a smile, so deeply did it move and please me that this prompted you to such heart-felt wishes for my good. — This almost happened to me again on the occasion of my supposedly being taken ill, since this time I could experience a smile of comfort over your goodness. God knows what these people are always having to set in motion regarding me! I could straightway put out a newspaper solely for refuting the false and evil things that reach me every day. In Dresden you all seem, so I hear, to have been entertained in especially fine style regarding me: the source of it was easily guessed by me in a certain Isidore von Reuter, a lady who, as a friend of Frau Schnorr (who absolutely wanted to marry me), took it into her head a few years ago to have me present her to the King of Bavaria. Since everything towards that end failed, I drew down upon me the hatred of both ladies to an excessive degree; that this, in part, should be cooked up in Dresden, where the disappointed "royal bride" is living, was to be expected. Well, in regard to this point, there are still some things for the last ten years of my biography not at all uninteresting to dwell on, only I shall have to pass over most of it out of sheer disgust!
As for the state of my health at present, I appear — especially to experts — to be an example of a particular species of human being ordained to long life and work. Though very sensitive and touchy, and quickly feverish and perspiring, I never become ill at all, properly speaking, and from what are at most indispositions, I recover so quickly that I appear laughable. Only I am plagued by bowel-trouble and rectal inflammation. In secure composure and cheerfulness (which is constantly ready to be exploded), everything soon blows over. Only in the summer of 1868, when I was returning from The Mastersingers in Munich, I was taken by a feverish weakness that was more lasting. I knew, however, at what point I had arrived, and I resolved never again to return to Munich (my hell!), and to save from there what would have gone to ruin without me. This I have accomplished. And now there will be peace, for my health too.
Soon I shall have completed my 57th year of life, and I venture to perceive that it was just peace alone that I lacked in order to prove my strength when it was still in its purest effectiveness. Last summer, on that day when a handsome son was born to more-than-happy me, I finished the composition of Siegfried, which I had interrupted for 11 years. An unheard-of thing! No one believed that I would ever achieve it. And now you must hear this last act, the awakening of Brünnhilde! My most beautiful thing! — And I have also begun the Twilight of the Gods. I must have much time, because whatever I write down is all just "superlative." But I'll still hold out, and then say to myself (what at the same time they in Munich may also be glad to say), "Well, it's done after all!" And some day — my young one will have to care for it properly. So, out of everything, I derive new strength for life. — It's only my young King who still causes me actual distress: wherein this lies, is by no means easy to say! Last summer things went badly with the Rhinegold: but he would not be dissuaded from it. Just let anyone try to preach any sense there! Now it's the command: Everything! Everything! Only not to postpone any longer the performance of my new works! I should command, everyone will obey me. There that all makes me worried again. God knows how I shall succeed in bringing myself to a position something of that sort — to have any desire myself for this. Still, I'll try, and — perhaps — it's possible that I may produce the Rhinegold and Valkyrie next summer.
Now, however, listen to me once, my good Anton! Don't you want to be present for that at last? Rietz has burned down your theatre so as not to be obliged to conduct the Mastersingers any more (thank God!). Therefore, do come the next time, if I should ever let anything be given again! At best, however, you should look around here at Triebschen. Can't you for once make a little "Medical Councillor's" trip to Switzerland? — Look here, my dear, now you are still the only one in my life who remains entirely pure and lovable to me! Believe me, I know what I am saying: the Only One! — And see, that's why I have written such a long letter to you first, in this new year. Now do you believe me yet? And also won't you greet your wife and children for me, good and heartily? Let all of you come here, rather, for I hold you all so very dear. Just see, two of you or even three can quite easily be accommodated in my big farm-house. You will be sure to like it: besides, at this time everything, everything of mine and everything here, will be in order. Therefore: don't think it over very much, but decide: it must be! Then I'll play something quite nice for you too!
But enough of chattering in fun and let's be in earnest! Good-bye! I am and remain your faithful and grateful bosom-friend
Richard Wagner
(Call on Heine, greet him for me, tell him everything, and let me have some word about him!)
Source: The Letters of Richard Wagner to Anton Pusinelli, trans. and ed. Elbert Lenrow (Alfred A. Knopf, 1932), No. 54