London is a very great and wealthy city and the English are exceptionally shrewd, circumspect and intelligent, but I, unlucky man that I am, have really nothing to do with them. If I chose to be comfortably installed here as conductor of the Philharmonic for a number of years, undoubtedly I could easily get the appointment, for these people see that I am a good conductor, but that would be all the satisfaction I should get here; beyond that there is nothing. There is not the remotest prospect of arousing any particular interest, especially at Court, in my operas or in a good sound German theatre. The Queen's taste, for instance, is trivial to the last degree and sympathy with the unusual is the last thing likely from anyone here. You can see it is so from the very nature of the people. True art is something utterly foreign to them and they are not to be touched outside the sphere of income and expenditure. For instance, the equanimity with which these people listened to the singing of a wearisome duet thirty seconds after the close of the Eroica was an altogether new experience for me; everyone assured me that no one was in the least scandalised by it, and the duet was applauded just like the symphony! This by the way. I placed all my hopes of satisfaction in my dealings with the orchestra, which is very devoted to me, and in the hope of a fine performance for its own sake. In particular I counted very much on being allowed two rehearsals for the next concert, as I hoped it would give me the opportunity of getting the orchestra really well in hand. But yesterday's first rehearsal dashed that hope as it showed me that two rehearsals are too few for my purpose. I had to pass over many important points and I see that I shall never be able to make up in just one more rehearsal, so I shall have to be satisfied with no more than a relatively good performance of the Ninth Symphony. As to my compositions from Lohengrin, I have felt this time to my deep distress how wretched it is for me to have to keep on appearing before the public with such extremely meagre extracts from this work. I felt I was making myself ridiculous, for I know how little people can learn of me and my work from these sample snippets with which I go travelling round like a commis voyageur. And to think that I am wasting these my best years like this, utterly hampered and circumscribed in my artistic activities! I would far rather forgo every attempt at exterior activity, for no one but myself knows the torture I suffer by it! Under such conditions, my sole remaining satisfaction would be to have done something for my lot on the practical side. I should be glad if I could do so, but how, short of stealing? How fat my purse will grow through my concert honorarium here, we have yet to see; in spite of my expensive lodgings I contemplate no actual extravagance and hope to save. But that's all, now and for ever! An Act of Parliament has been passed recently according to which there is no longer to be copyright in works which have already appeared abroad, but only in those written in England and for England and first published here. So the first thing to greet me here was an elegant translation of the Star of Eve and Lohengrin's Rebuke to Elsa, published by Ewer, and I am assured that a further complete selection of my vocal pieces is contemplated immediately. It appears that everyone has the right to reprint them at pleasure. Consequently I very much regret that I recently paid carriage for having these things sent to me for England.
Dearest friend, give up trying to make me "independent". All my life I shall be a ragamuffin, particularly according to English ideas, and accordingly can only hope no one will depend on me; anyone who does so will have a hard time of it. That's the long and the short of the matter. But perhaps I shall soon give up Art and in that case all will be well. It is that alone that from time to time fills me with illusions which can only result in evil for me. Periodically it induces a frivolous mood in me and, as you know, frivolity is good for no one, least of all for those who give themselves up to it. Only a little more, I assure you, and I shall have come to the point of putting a final stop to that particular source of all folly in my life. I have cause enough. The agonies my art inflicts on me far outweigh the rare enchantments it affords me. Only a little, only one thing indeed, and I give this game up too. Then something will probably be done, but by other ways than most would be prepared to believe.
Apart from this, my dearest London acquaintance up till now is the first violin here, Sainton, a native of Toulouse, ardent, kind-hearted and lovable. My call to London is due to him alone. He has lived four years in close friendship with a German, Liuders. The latter has read my writings on art and became so predisposed to me that, to the best of his ability, he made them known to Sainton, and the two thereupon decided that there was no doubt of my being an able man. So when Sainton proposed me to the directors and had to say how he knew me, he lied and said he had personally seen me conduct, for, as he said to me, the true reason for his conviction about me would have been unintelligible to these people. After the first rehearsal, when Sainton embraced me ecstatically, I could not help calling him a temeraire who might think himself lucky he had not caused offence this time! I like this man very much. A man like that in London among Englishmen is a perfect oasis in the desert. On the other hand, anything more offensive than the genuine English type I cannot conceive. They are one and all of the sheep-like type, and the Englishman's practical brains are just as reliable as the sheep's instinct for finding its fodder in the meadow. It finds its fodder, sure enough, but unhappily the whole fair field and the blue sky above are non-existent to its senses of perception. How wretched must he seem among them who, on the contrary, sees only meadow and sky but is bad at perceiving the yarrow! I also very much like a young musician, Klindworth, introduced to me by Liszt. If the fellow only had a tenor voice I should carry him off willy-nilly, for in appearance, apart from his voice, he is a complete Siegfried.
Richard Wagner
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Volume 1, ed. Altmann/Hull (London: Dent, 1927), No. 275