[...] Besides you, Liszt has congratulated me, by telegraph, too, so I immediately telegraphed my thanks to him. Apart from this, one of my hopes has been annihilated. You know that I hoped Karl Ritter would not be able to find it in his heart to leave me without a greeting for this day, and I thought I should then have heard something of my lost property as well. Nothing has come, however, and I am really troubled. Clearly he does not wish to compromise me in the eyes of his family. I was more fortunate with Frau Ritter (his mother), from whom I found a letter awaiting me on my last return home, which showed me that I had succeeded in enlightening and, to some extent—even in reassuring her. Curious—in answer to certain remarks of mine she replied, "Dear Karl often acts so rashly. When he suddenly decided on one of the most important steps in his life, all my plea was that he should give himself time and not make a binding promise in such a hurry, but in vain!"
O Fate!
Who is right and who wrong in this world? What a wild confusion it is of likes and dislikes, desire and abhorrence! A man wants stability in his life and sooner or later sets up a boundary post—thus far and no farther—no more changes! And he sets up the post where he supposes that his desire will abide—but it abides not, and what then?
"Wer ist denn glücklich?" [Who, then, is happy?] That, then, is the best comfort—to be able to answer at once: "Wer Redlichkeit übt" [He who does honestly], or if you like: "Die Trommel gerührt, das Pfeifchen gespielt" [The drum is rolled, the fife is played]. Do you think I am mad??
No doubt I shall become a little cracked in time. Rarely can any man have lived so much from day to day as I do. Any plan I may form, crumbles the moment I look straight at it—nothing stands firm. I have positively no idea where I shall find a roof to my head in a month's time and plans are of no use. I abandon myself now with true fatalism to chance. I started a course of Kissingen waters yesterday and I allow myself to do as I like, particularly in the matter of work. Day after day I look at the weather and see that it is going to rain; neglect to answer Härtel's, who are dunning me for "manuscript" (!); order children's lollypops and gingerbread-men and think, "He who submits to God's decree"! In this way I find things are not so bad and I simply await a miracle; who knows, perhaps one may happen!—Really it is not worth the trouble to torment oneself. After all, the best things come to one "unerbeten, unerfleht—am willigsten" [unprayed for, unimplored—most willingly], like sleep to Egmont.
See, I could go on chattering away with you hour after hour if only Wesendonck would not start a discussion of this or the other point and so make the chatter something rather more precise.—It is a warm day to-day. Heavens, how lovely that is! Well, then, a man can go lightly clad—nay, but that ought not to be, for it is better when it is cold and one can go warmly wrapped against it! Here at once is matter for a little argument!
Still no news of my trunk from Venice. Ultimately I shall cease to care even about that—even if Siegfried is lost. At best I can do nothing but worry myself intensely to no purpose! On the other hand, I've made another new discovery with regard to Parzival even though I have not read your book yet. Otherwise I read nothing at all. [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 412