Only a short time ago I was credibly informed that you and your companions in misfortune are allowed to receive letters from acquaintances and not only from near relations, as long as these letters touch on purely personal interests, or at least have no connection with politics. As what I have to say to you could only concern, firstly, my deep and sorrowful sympathy with your fate, and secondly news of my doings, I at once decided to write to you, only first taking steps to get as accurate news as possible about your condition. I learned, then, through your private physician that the rumours that you had forfeited permission to do literary work by unruly behaviour were unfounded and that, on the contrary, things were as bearable for you as is possible in such a place and that your vigour was not yet lost. I confess that it was this news which first made me capable of writing to you as I would have liked to do. As you can imagine, since our parting I have constantly inquired for news of your fate with very keen interest and have done my best to follow it.
The outward events of my life are soon told. How lacking in honour, how worthless is our whole present-day art, is completely apparent when she divests herself of the last rag of shame and openly confesses that she means to preserve her existence at any price. I need not tell you how unhappy a man of my kind must feel under these conditions. I have to surrender myself open-eyed to illusion in order to justify any kind of activity which, from another aspect, is the only thing that can still blind my eyes to the general badness of things. Further theorising repels me now and Liszt has spurred me on to a new work of art. Accordingly I have composed a poem, Young Siegfried, a thing calculated indeed to bring me great joy yet. My hero grows up wild in the forest and is educated by a dwarf for the purpose of killing a dragon who guards a treasure. This treasure of the Nibelungs is a matter of exceeding great moment and all kinds of crimes are associated with it. Siegfried is almost the lad of the fairy tale who goes out into the world to learn what fear means, which he will never succeed in doing because with his strong common sense he sees all things as they are. He destroys the dragon and kills his teacher, the dwarf, who sought to make away with him secretly for the sake of the treasure. Siegfried, yearning for an end to his solitude, now learns from a bird's song, having won the power to understand it by accidentally tasting dragon's blood, of Brynhilde, who sleeps on a rock surrounded by fire. Siegfried penetrates the fire and awakes Brynhilde, the woman of rapturous love. I can indicate no more here. Perhaps I can send you the poem itself. Only one thing more: we have already touched on it in our ardent talks. We cannot be what we might be and ought to be until Woman is not awakened. Ah, what kind of songs am I singing to you, most unfortunate of men! Believe me, I am not satisfied to be able to do nothing but sing. I shall complete Young Siegfried, but I shall never deceive myself for a moment into believing that this is anything but a beautiful illusion and that Reality surpasses all.
Richard Wagner
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Volume 1, ed. Altmann/Hull (London: Dent, 1927), No. 207