Lucerne, May 23, 59. Your war-song, Lady-friend, was quite admirable, and by all means a good inspiration. There's something in it like the storm-spell of my Donner in Rheingold, which pleased Liszt so much. By the music for it, though, there hangs a curious tale, which you'll hardly credit when I tell it you. On my last journey home to Lucerne the rhythm of the railway-carriage made music for me again, and brought me to Beethoven's music for Egmont. I ran that through my memory once more, closely scanned the " Leidvoll und freudvoll," and found that this was not a success. The Soldier-song stood the . test all the better, and I had to find it so thoroughly original and excellent that I sang it through twice over, in my head. I hadn't an inkling of purpose about it, but simply tumbled on this song out of comparison with the other. So you may judge my surprise when I found your song awaiting me at home, built on precisely that melody in favour of which I had just rejected the " freudvoll und leidvoll " — whose text, by the way, I had also amended while criticising the music ; viz., the false rhyme " himmelhoch jauchzend, zum Tode betriibt : gliicklich allein ist die Seele die liebt" I altered into "gliicklich allein ist wer Redlichkeit iibt" [" happy alone is who honestly deals" — Goethe having written, "happy alone is the spirit that loves." — Tr.] which obviously sounds better. So that matter of the Soldier's song and its music has succeeded completely. Heavens, though! Supposing you were to run away from us one day, and join the military ! Already I can see you serving in the Engineers ( " Genie "). And how goes everything else? Was Myrrha able to decipher my yesterday's despatch? I wrote it very neatly. But Myki's handwriting is growing lovelier every day; if she goes on at this rate, she'll arrive in due course at the hand of her mother, beyond which, of course, 'twere useless to aspire. Besides yourself, Liszt also congratulated me, telegraphically ; for which I promptly thanked him by telegraph, in my turn. Apart from that, one of my hopes has been dashed : you know how I hoped that Karl Ritter would not permit himself to leave me without a greeting on that day, which would also have given me tidings of his whereabouts ; nothing having arrived, however, I am much concerned, as he evidently doesn't want to compromise me in the eyes of his family. I was luckier with Frau Ritter (the mother), from whom I likewise found a letter on my last return home, which shewed me that I had to some extent succeeded in enlightening, and consequently even in reassuring her. Remarkable — she replied to certain hints of mine: "good Karl often acts too imprudently ; when he suddenly resolved on one of the most momentous steps in life, all my pleadings to give himself a little time, and not bind himself by an engagement so quickly, were in vain." O Fatum ! [cf. p. 45.] Who is right, and who wrong, in this world? It is a jumble of likes and dislikes, attraction and repulsion : if a man wants peace of life, at last he plants a boundary-post, — here shall things stop, and not change any further! And the post stands exactly where the craving meant to stop : — but it did not stop, and then? — "Who then is happy?" [Goethe's Tasso] — After all, that's the best quietive ; — and one can always answer it with : "wer Redlichkeit ubt "— or, if you like : "die Trommel geriihrt, das Pfeifchen gespielt."* Do you think me crazy?? Just a wee bit out of my senses I probably shall go in time. Such a random life as mine has assuredly never been led. Everything that might resemble a plan in me, falls to pieces the instant I look at it fixedly ; nothing holds water. I positively don't know where to deposit myself four weeks hence, and as not a single plan is good, I am yielding myself with true fanaticism to hazard, drink Kissinger water since yesterday, force myself to nothing, in particular not to my work, look out on how it threatens rain each day again, don't answer Hartels, who worry me for " manuscript " (!), let children give me cushions, and grownups Zwieback, and reflect " who leaves the issue in the hands of God ! " So it jogs along quite passably at last, and I simply leave it to a miracle ; who knows ? maybe one will occur ! — Indeed, it isn't worth the pains of fretting ; the best things come to one " unbidden, unbesought — the readiest," as sleep to Egmont. — See, I could go on chattering with you by the hour, if Wesendonck didn't start a discussion on one point or other, and thus give more precision to the chatter [such as] : — It's warm in the world, these days ; Heavens, what lovely weather ! Stay, though : one may go about lightly clad, — which ought really not to be, you know, for it's better when the weather's cold and one can go warmly clad against it Over that a nice little dispute could be raised at once! — Still no news of my box from Venice ! But that also is becoming indifferent to me, even whether the Siegfried gets lost. What more can I do for it, save at utmost to harass myself unsuccessfully? On the other hand, I have made another altogether new invention for the Parzival, notwithstanding that I haven't read your book yet* Neither am I reading anything else whatsoever, except the Allgemeine of an evening, which I mean to throw aside soon, however, and that for good cause. I'm not particularly keen on anything, but will take a turn at the Plato ; a dip into it did me much good. One ought never to associate with aught but the noblest ; everything else is debasement, a thousandfold dilution of the primal fount. (Well, is that at least a rational maxim?) Perhaps Tausig will come to me presently : he's to be had, and would like it. To-day I've worked a little, which passed off once more as the day before yesterday. What will you say to me, you bellicose person? — me so peaceable that I don't even wage war with myself any more ! But one thing is good and enduring : — thousand thanks for your wishes. Write me soon again, how I appear to you ; it will shew me what to think of myself! Kindest greetings — and hearty thanks. Your R. W.
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, No. 74