I have pitied you so often in this hot weather, for it must indeed be stifling in Paris. Perhaps you are taking refuge again in the Bois de Boulogne, only one has to pay for even that by some exertion. It is really beautiful now on this green hill, and the moonlight nights are lovely past compare. It is long since we had such a summer; it really makes one feel quite superstitious, and almost afraid to go to bed lest everything should have changed before the morning.
Last week we made a little excursion with the children to Baden-Weiler, the ancestral home of the Princes of Zähringen. It is an hour by rail from Basle, and already bears quite the physiognomy of the little Baden land below; fine nut-trees, woodlands, hills, pastures, and in the distance the silver ribbon of the Rhine. I suppose that will be something like your future home; pleasant, quiet and lonesome, I almost fear too lonesome, as far as concerns the society of refined, intellectual, artistic people; there Paris spoils one. Lessing is a taciturn, almost over-modest creature, whose strongest passion is hunting; Schirmer is simply primitive; the Grand Duke? — but you must know him better than I. Our German princesses are mostly brought up in very homely fashion; they learn to keep house, that is to say, to eke out their pocket-money, and touch us by their simple unassuming manners. The Grand Duchess, however, has attractive features. Her portrait hangs on the wall of the Roman Bath at Baden-Weiler, together with the Duke's, in a gold frame; whilst the former reigning couple have to content themselves with a plain black one, hung in a corner. Perhaps in fifty years or so the young people may be advanced in their turn to the black frame, while a new star shines in the gold one, and the grandparents have utterly vanished. It was quite a picture of the age.
Last Saturday there was a concert in the Frau-Münster-Kirche; Papa Heim conducted, but was unequal to his task. Schmidt of Vienna sang an air from the Creation; a grand voice, that stays clear and distinct even in the softest passages; he must make a splendid König Heinrich. His powerful physique also pleased me, and it seems at least made for endurance, for he is eternally singing, now here, now there; but his programme is terrible, calculated for none but the most commonplace audience. A portion of Gluck's Orpheus and Euridice was given, and greatly moved me. Most lovely is that passage where Orpheus goes down into Hades, and the spirits of the nether world thunder out at him their cries of No! No! while the harp-strains glide so sweetly and softly between them, teaching us to trust in the ultimate triumph of the beautiful. I should very much like to hear the whole opera some day.
Frau Dr. Wille came into town for the concert, and spent the night with us. She gave me many kind messages for you, and I presented her with the Rhein-Gold. Sunday morning we breakfasted on the north terrace and chatted a great deal about you. Keller, Dr. Wille, Köchly and his wife came to lunch, also old Fräulein Ulrich, whom you may perhaps remember; we are very fond of the old lady, with her original ways. — How I chatter! But perhaps it may cheer my friend up, or even recall old times to him. He knows a great deal, but thank God he does not know what grey hairs mean yet; ebb and flow, light and shade, that is youth. A greybeard has no moods such as you describe in your last letter, and do not we know that they come and go? That is my comfort. As I sit here on the balcony and write, the mountains are glowing rose-red in the sunset; would I could fix a reflection of their tender gleam on this little page, and waft it into your soul!
I am so glad you are going to Weimar; for all that, Liszt is the one man nearest to you; do not let him fall from his place in your heart. I always remember a lovely remark of his: "I value people by what they are to Wagner." As for Vienna, we will see if fortune favours us: at least it is pleasant to think of. I have just heard for the first time from the Princess from Rome. She frequents none but the Nazarenes there, the Christian, churchy painters. That serves her purpose, which she is carrying through with iron resolution, altho' she must be frightfully ennuyée with it all. Apart from Cornelius and Overbeck there is not much pleasure to be found amongst them; of course I am referring to living artists.
And now to beg a favour, which you shall grant me when occasion allows. I have had a little photographic album given to me, and have already several likenesses of friends in it, carte-de-visite size like my own; in a few seconds one can get a dozen taken. Now of course I possess your large photograph, but the little book would so like to have one too, and the place for it remains vacant; you will not deny the little book its whim? It will be very patient, and the Child will be patient too, and not worry the Master with writing for it; he must only do it when he wants to, for if he always consulted the Child I fear he would have enough to do. Meanwhile she is trying to harden herself by strengthening baths, but they are somewhat exhausting, and seem to steal away the little strength remaining to her. Nevertheless a good result is promised.
Now it has grown dusk, the mountains stand pale and lifeless over there, and all is very still. Peace, Peace, may the blessedest peace descend on your heart also!
Your Mathilde Wesendonck.
Next morning. Last week the Pasha of Egypt came up here, and afterwards went on to the Bürkli terrace, where they played the Pilgrims' chorus and Evening-star a few minutes later. The sounds came across to me quite plainly. — Sulzer is back at Winterthur, making a pause in his cure. While he was looking at the pictures I was doubtful about his eyesight; but later on, in the garden, when he wanted to distinguish some very large flowers on an evergreen, he was obliged to use double glasses. I was very sorry, for the flowers are light blue, and stand out most distinctly from the glossy green of the leaves. — Now one more good wish! Is this not a real gossipy letter!
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, trans. William Ashton Ellis (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1905), No. 154