Good morning, dear Minna!
This morning you'll be getting the letter about the last concert, which is sure to entertain you highly. I'm still quite hoarse from so much talking with — the — Queen; which appears to have made a great impression here. Of course the principal papers, to whom the affair was a thorn in the eye, mention nothing of the interview; but the Globe has been brought me, wherein it stands that the Queen had had me summoned after my overture, and spoken with me for some time. Yesterday I sent this sheet to Sulzer in a wrapper: to-day I learn that he has already left for Winterthur. Please find out at once from the usher whether the sheet has been sent after him; if not, beg it back, and pass it on to Spyri — or Hagenbuch; perhaps the latter would be glad of it for the N. Züricher Z. —
As a fact, the kind and distinguishing behaviour of little Victoria has ended by putting me in quite a good humour. You know the only thing I ever care for when I ply my art: a kindled, sympathetic glance affords me satisfaction, whilst other tokens of applause, which I have to share with so much rubbish, mostly leave me in uncertainty. And it came straight from the tiny person's heart; I marked that well. In any case both she and her husband had been informed of the vulgar campaign of abuse pursued against me by the noble English army of reporters; consequently they gave me a conscious satisfaction, made easier to them, which delights me most, by the impression they derived from what I offered. Sainton has given another lesson at the Palace to the young Princess Hohenlohe, a relative of the Queen's on the mother's side: the young lady was likewise quite enraptured still, and told Sainton the Queen and Prince Albert had declared that they only regretted being unable to hear the overture once more forthwith — and so on. — Dear God! if I could really bring myself to make my footing firm here, so as to play a big role, perhaps very soon, and even become a rich man, probably it would stand entirely in my power. Already I'm very famous here, and all are beginning to think me something quite unusual; and this has largely been effected by the fury of the press against me. Among my audience there are many enthusiasts who positively take me for the greatest genius of the century, and people never speak of me otherwise than as of a "great man." So much is certain: the Times critic (Davison), in particular, has merely been waiting for me to take some kind of step to win him over, which is also said to have been the reason of his temporary silence about me after his first long article in the Times; people assure me it would have cost me nothing further than the according him some sort of notice. The greater, naturally, has been and is his anger at my doing nothing of the kind. And that is quite in order; for, once granted that one doesn't need the Press here, the whole fear thereof, and consequently its whole importance, would be lost. They tell me he is keeping the door open even yet, to change front as soon as I took the smallest notice of him. — But nobody, I hope, will expect that of me; it would be a poltroonery I could never forgive myself; however, it also is sheer impossible, because I simply — cannot do it. Under any circumstances, moreover, I have nothing at all to seek here; and even if they praised me to the skies, I should never return here — just because I have nothing to seek here, and in particular, such a concert-conductorship is not my affair. — Consequently I am only too glad that the whole dreary time is drawing to its close now, and I shall be regiven to myself: care and suffering are not the worst evil, if one only is free in his noblest conscience; but nothing in the world could delight me, if it made me a dependent on demands that go against my insight and my feeling. So — Tuesday week I travel back. I am pleased, however, to be concluding this distasteful sojourn with a little reconcilement, and I owe that sense of consolation this time to my little Victoria. —
The only difference of opinion is as to how I managed to make such a favourable impression on the Queen. Praeger declares, I looked so handsome in his white cravat, that she fell in love with me; others maintain, it was the beautiful Zurich tail-coat. For my own part, I have to reproach myself with having deceived her throughout the whole concert; she is said to have stubbornly fancied, to wit, I had entirely new gloves on, whereas they were nothing but cleaned. In that you'll recognise my savingness, no doubt, but alas, a lack of candour too.
Yesterday I had a call from Berlioz, who is tramping for his daily bread, and really is hard pushed; he cannot earn a sou in France, so has to eke out a scanty subsistence by concerts in England and Germany (which — as I happen to know — bring him mighty little in). Here he is invited by the New Philharmonic for two concerts. He has made his peace already with the local press, after being likewise torn to tatters by it to begin with. Besides his Romeo and Juliet symphony, he also conducted a symphony by Mozart, which he let them murder so horribly that I turned tail. But that's quite English; they like it that way, and Berlioz, who only looks to money now, knows how he has to do things. For that matter, he lacks all depth.
So farewell for to-day once again, my very best Muzius. Congratulate yourself that I still associate with you; after my Rendez-vous with the Queen, I've grown so proud that I speak to strictly no one any more. — I'm very sorry about Sulzer's illness, though — if the man would but give up his cursed legislating! He easily might leave it to his thick-skulled, phlegmatic fellow-countrymen; they never ruin their health with it, but it's different with such a sensitive nature as his. He seems to have had a severe attack this time, or he would never have given in. Will he be remaining at Winterthur awhile for the present?
Now, the very best farewell; greet left and right; tell people, too, they'll not be rid of me. Adieu, dearest Wife!
Thy good Husband.
Praegers send kindest regards. The wife has marked your stockings, and had them washed; otherwise I should have had to pay duty in France for them; it's terribly strict there, and several people have told me they were searched to the skin.
Source: Richard to Minna Wagner: Letters to His First Wife, trans. William Ashton Ellis, Vol. 1 (H. Grevel & Co., 1909), No. 100