Believe me, dear Franz, I find it very difficult to give you news of myself. We live too little together, and must necessarily become strangers in one important aspect of friendship. You wrote to me to Venice and Lucerne that you liked my migration to Paris for the reason that you would be able to visit me more frequently. I have often assured you that I desired an amnesty particularly because I should be able to pay you more frequent and longer visits, and I informed you again that your promise induced me to look upon my Paris settlement in a more favourable light. In spite of this, my first request for your visit addressed to you from here has met with a refusal.
You say you cannot come to Paris, and propose a two days' meeting at Strassburg instead. What will be the use of these Strassburg days to us; what to me? I have nothing to tell you in a hurry, no plans that we need discuss. I want to enjoy you, to live with you for some time, as we have hitherto seen so little of each other. Why do you all of a sudden object to Paris, where, if you do not wish it, no one need know of your presence? I can get you rooms near me in a very remote quarter. We shall spend the days at my lodging, where you can see whom you like. Why need you always be a public man apart from the private friend? I cannot understand this. My poor deserted life has made me incapable of comprehending an existence which casts a side glance at the whole world at every step.
You must pardon me for declining the Strassburg meeting, greatly as I appreciate the sacrifice which you offer me. It is just this sacrifice which appears to me too great at the price of a few hurried days in a Strassburg hotel. I am extremely sorry that the Princess was unable to find me; her very valuable letter I fail to understand. By the spontaneous joy and cordiality with which I should have received her, she would have recognized what she is to me. She has often experienced this, and surely does not suspect me of affectation. I do not know what to say to all this, and remain silent. My silence extends to everything else that otherwise I might have told you about myself. If one has to tell such things at all, it is better to be silent about them.
As to the Carlsruhe plan you are probably sufficiently enlightened. Devrient has thought it desirable to make an excuse for the bungling and neglectful way in which he has taken up the idea of a first performance of Tristan at his theatre, by saying that it is impossible to execute the work. To that ALSO I do not reply. Why should I speak? I know my fate and my position, and remain silent. It is more serious to think of the consequences which the wiping out of my new work from the list of living things will have for my means of subsistence. However, why should I point out those consequences? He who is endowed with five senses must know what my position is. I can complain no longer, for that would mean to accuse, and I do not even want to accuse friend Devrient. I have not said a word to him.
You know enough now, and more than will please you. My wife has arrived here. She is a little better, and I hope things will go on tolerably well. She told me, without complaining, that you had been at Dresden without paying her a visit. I tried to comfort her as well as I could.
Richard Wagner
Source: Project Gutenberg eBook #4234, Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt — Volume 2, No. 299