My Child, I am writing you from the hôtel of the Prussian embassy, where I have found sanctuary for the few weeks I still must keep to Paris. In front of me I have a garden with fine tall trees and a basin with two black swans, over the garden the Seine, and over the Seine the garden of the Tuileries; so that I can breathe again a little, and at least am in ordinary Paris no longer.
My household goods have been packed again, and sent to the dépôt here: where they will get unpacked, some day, God knows; in all probability I shall never see them more. I am wanting my wife to settle down in Dresden, and take them to herself there; for my part, I can think of no more settling down. This the upshot of a last, hard, infinitely miserable experience! 'Tis not appointed me, to cultivate my muse in the lap of a cosy home; each attempt to defy all the frowns of my fate, and indulge a longing so innate in me, is more emphatically frustrated every time, from within and from without; the dæmon of my life throws every cunning semblance to the dust. 'Tis not appointed me, and every sought-for rest becomes the source of most acute disquietudes.
So I shall vow the remnant of my life to roving. Perhaps it will be granted me to rest my limbs from time to time beside some shady well, and here or there refresh myself: the only benefaction still to grant me! —
To Carlsruhe I am not going!!
From this indication of results you may infer the latest happenings in my life, both inner and outer. —
At the last there even died the little dog that you once sent me from your sickbed; mysteriously suddenly! It is presumed he had been struck by a cart-wheel in the street, injuring one of the little pet's internal organs. After 5 hours passed without a moan, quite gently and affectionately, but with progressive weakness, he silently expired. Not a foot of ground was at my disposal, to bury the tiny friend in; so I sneaked and forced my way into Stürmer's little back-garden, where I buried him myself by stealth beneath a bush. — With that little dog I buried much! — So I intend to wander now, and on my wanderings I shall have companion no more. —
That tells you everything! —
I shall be able to send you a carte-de-visite presently: Liszt, who sat to every photographer in the place, compelled me to a sitting also. I have not been to fetch the cards yet, but will do so by and by. —
Keep well and cheerful! Many hearty wishes to Otto and the children! All my love to yourself! —
R. W.
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, trans. William Ashton Ellis (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1905), No. 124