[...] As to the Karlsruhe enterprise itself, my hopes are not particularly high. Devrient has gradually sunk to the level of a mere mechanic and no more. He has no comprehension of what he has to deal with here and his chief care is simply for his "Institute." A singer for Isolde is quite definitely not to be found and I shall have to make the best of the voiceless Garrigues, always supposing she decides to conquer the difficulty of the numerous low passages. I am rather out of humour with Karlsruhe, particularly as I hear nothing at all of the fulfilment of the Grand-Ducal promises, and I rack my brains to secure some more favourable chance of a first performance for my Tristan. I am even thinking of Berlin, as your new tenor and Mme. Wippern (of whom I hear a good report), or even Johanna, offer me no bad prospect—my personal direction being, of course, indispensable. [...]—How would it be if you were to put on your best clothes and demand an audience of the young Prince [Frederick William] of Prussia? You would have to tell him confidentially of my anxieties about the first performance of my new work, and [...] ask him whether he would undertake to answer the petition I should address him, if all went well, to negotiate a temporary summons to Berlin (for a period of four weeks) for the sole purpose of conducting a first performance of Tristan. [...]—Also I should much like Vienna; better, perhaps, than Berlin. [...]
I have read the abstract of your letter on Tristan. It will not be well received. I have nothing to say about your remarks as to beauty, greatness, etc.; that is your affair. But I deprecate as unpractical your expression of doubt as to the likelihood of the opera's popularity. Such words are not spoken simply among ourselves but spread to those who do not understand us, or who are more or less permanently hostile, and this fact should always be considered in writing for publication. Härtel's are already becoming difficult on account of the expressed doubts of—my own friend. What have you, I, and our few real friends to do with this tiresome question of popularity? Why touch upon it at all? In the same way, there are many matters which we are quite frank about among ourselves (for instance, that since my acquaintance with Liszt's compositions my treatment of harmony has become very different from what it was formerly), but it is indiscreet, to say the least, of friend Pohl to babble this secret to the whole world in the prominent first lines of his short article on the overture to Tristan. I cannot suppose, can I, that he was authorised to this indiscretion? [...] I believe he embarrasses Liszt, even if he pleases the Princess.
Well, this is merely by the way. I must bewail to you, in confidence, that I simply do not know how to find words to write to Liszt now. I have been tormenting myself for weeks over the intention of writing to him. I might well take it more lightly, for I have never really had a letter from Liszt but, at best, only answers to my letters, and these always half or a quarter the length of mine. That shows he feels no impulse towards me. If I address him he becomes the best friend a man can conceive—but he does not address me. How can I go on perpetually accosting him? Of course, my lot in life gives me very frequent occasion to apply to my friends, but I must try gradually to accustom my lot to do without this! How things are between Liszt and myself or, rather, what stands between us, you can judge for yourself from his behaviour. [...]
I know that Liszt's generous nature conquers in each conflict as it arises. The lines inscribed on his Dante showed me a fine emotion, a noble sense of shame for his recent weakness, in which, apparently because of insinuations, he behaved coldly to me. Therefore Liszt will always stand to me for something noble, deeply sympathetic, wonderful and dear, but the happy pursuance of our friendship is no longer to be thought of. His neglect of its cultivation has strikingly outrun my own. I can do nothing now but follow his example. I have always had to have too many reserves with him, and that makes friendship impossible. I am at a loss for further words to him—my warmth has too often been answered by mere phrases. But I cannot write mere phrases to him; he is too dear to me for that. [...]
I live a completely solitary and retired life here. I went to tea with Madame Charnacé a little while ago. She is very nice, but we do not understand each other. I shall go on living my own quiet life. I am very grateful to you for Gaspérini; he is pleasant, lively and seems disposed to be helpful. How the Tannhäuser affair will go, I do not know. Everything depends in the first place on a good translation. Cosima and Hans could be very useful there. Are they industrious? Härtel's, the horrors, have sent me not a word of the pianoforte arrangement [of Tristan] despite all my reminders. It passes belief! [...]
I stayed four days in Zurich as a guest at the Wesendoncks'. The husband is very devoted to me and admirable in the truest sense of the word. A beautiful, and certainly very rare, relation has been evolved there, and has proved what true sincerity can do with even the least gifted natures. And so the husband stands between me and the wife whom he had to resign utterly, as truest friend—I can well say it—of both. I am supremely proud of this development; I was guided only by my very intense craving not to deprive the poor lady of my companionship. Now the almost fabulous attempt has succeeded. We visited each other repeatedly, between Lucerne and Zurich. I was continually in her house, and all I could do to help the loyal lady in her difficult lot was done with the genuine pleasure of her husband in my visit and my stay. There is a lovely piece of work for you! Show me its like!—
I am reuniting with my unhappy wife [...] She depends on me for life and death, and therefore my attitude to her is settled for me in advance. [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 434