May 23, 60, Paris. I broke open your last Roman letter this morning in bed, and viewed what it Contained [her portrait and Otto's as birthday gift, see p. 232]. Maurice came back to tell me my bath was ready ; he found me bathed in tears, and silently withdrew. My child, the gods honoured me yesterday with the finest day of this year. It had never been entirely bright and fair before : on my early-morning walk of yesterday for the first time I was greeted by an absolute clear sky, with an invigorating easterly wind to boot ; everything green and gleaming. Without the faintest cause for gladness at my individual lot, living from one day to the next in the most tottering uncertainty, daily compelled to defend myself, as if besieged, against continual attacks upon my quiet — yet it was well and bright with me ; the gods loved me, and that made me smile. Nothing approached me, nothing met me with a greeting, except the heavens and the lovely breeze, which had shunned me so long ; but that sufficed, and fairest visions filed before my soul. For sure, I pondered, everywhere 'tis fine to-day, and what tho' I receive no greetings, full many a someone will be thinking of me and saying : See, the gods do love him ! — How childish I still am, how easy to be coaxed ! The sky and zephyrs, sunshine and green of May, relieved you of the trouble, this time, of scaring dull care from my brow. Please thank them a little ! — What I else have only known in bouts of exaltation, turned this time to a quiet calm resolve — to delight myself by some good deed addressed to others. At home I found the latest number of the Journal des Debats ; in it an article by Berlioz on Fidelio. I had not seen Berlioz since my concerts : thereafter he had let himself be enticed into greater and greater animosities and ill-Concealed attacks ; I had been the more obliged to give the unhappy man up, as any contrary attempt would inevitably have appeared to him an insult. However, I was much delighted by this article on Fidelio, and braving every possibility, nay, probability of his totally misunderstanding me, I wrote him somewhat as follows : " I have this moment read your article on Fidelio. Accept a thousand thanks for it ! It is quite a special joy to me, to hear these pure and noble accents of expression of a soul, an intellect, which so completely understands and makes its own the inner secrets of a creation by another hero of art. There are moments when the witnessing of such an act of estimation transports me almost to a higher pitch than the appreciated work itself ; because that testifies so plainly that an endless chain connects great spirits, which through this solitary link are saved from ever falling to incomprehension."* How rejoiced I shall be, if he takes that in good part. To be sure, upon reading the article through a second time I remarked how infinitely remote from mine is Berlioz' standpoint, even in this valuation of Beethoven ; he still pays far too much regard to the artwork's outward features, and consequently an attention beyond my comprehension to the manifestations of applause wherewith it is received. Nevertheless I could see how solitary is Berlioz' station even on that step, and how foolish he is to deprive himself of the sole refreshment possible in such a situation, ungrudging welcome of his next-of-kin. But envy — : good God ! ! — So my thoughts roamed tranquilly ahead, and lit on Liszt. Of him I know truly nothing that has not shewn him to me in a strictly amiable light ; his shadows do not lie in his character, but solely in his intellect here and there : on that side he is easily influenced, and gets lost in weaknesses. It was long since I had written him ; * even my great grief at the loss of his son [Dec. 15, 59] was expressed to him merely through others [Biilows ?]. Business there is none between us, and to so dear a friend I can't write otherwise than intimately ; but, to be certain that one's confidences are always being made to two [i.e. Liszt and Pss Wittgenstein] is really past abiding, — it turns the whole thing into pose and jugglery. And that's the fact : Liszt has become a man without a single secret to himself ; neither is it a union of hearts, but his plainly abused weakness, that has reduced him to an unlovely dependence. At last I PARIS LETTERS 231" Regretfully, tut definitely declared to him— or rather to the pair, alas ! — that I could write to him (or them !) no more. So the poor fellow sacrifices all in silence, and suffers all as if he could see nothing else for it ; yet he goes on loving me as heretofore, just as he remains a noble, precious creature in my sight. Imagine then, how touchingly a greeting steals to us from time to time ; from time to time we find the means of giving each other's hand a hidden squeeze, like a pair of lovers severed by the world. Thus only yesterday the most ardent felicitation on my birthday arrived for me by telegraph ; * how I smile and rejoice then ! — And so the day passed : I remained in unruffled good spirits, mentally enjoying, almost for the first time, that sense of ease and happiness of the bodily robust who is conscious of no reason for his well-being just because it proceeds from a harmonious balance of his vital forces. To you I've little need to name the source whence this feeling wells for me ; 'tis that itself which gives this health, and so exquisite it is, that still I feel how very seldom can a fine day bring me such untroubled harmony again. At evening, Jupiter shone wondrous bright on me — he's standing at full brilliance now — according to our Schopenhauer's conceit he is the star of the fifty years old, and I still lack three of that ; but I shall live to see them : will Jupiter stay true to me, and shine upon me then ? Oh, there still are starless nights to come, I know them all, the dread and dreary through the which I have to steer : — Shall I then espy the star again ; will Jupiter shine for me when 232 WAGNER TO MATHlLDE WESENDCfiSTCK my need of a lodestar is direst? — I asked. The wondrous evening answered me with balmy breath, and cooled my eye.^ — A couple of young Germans, whom I chose entirely at random, came round at night. Before leaving, they gave me no peace till I played them the prelude to Tristan again, over which all the young-folks have gone completely mad, particularly when it comes to the new close. That close, in fact, I had to play them a couple of times more : then I bundled them off, and laid me down. To-day I awake, and your letter is brought to my bedside. But there, child, there I can narrate no more — wherefore not a word about the portraits of you both ! — You shall have mine as soon as ever I know when I'm to address it to Zurich. It's the best of my portraits, quite remarkable to myself for having succeeded so well in very unpropitious circumstances, and especially for having caught so calm and unconstrained a facial expression. I was very much out of sorts, yet plagued by the Brussels bandsmen to leave them my photograph as souvenir ; it rained (Otto knows how it can rain at Brussels), and I didn't want to go to the studio. Finally, late in the day, behold me called for once more : I had no umbrella, was to conduct again that evening, had to mount five flights of stairs, and expressed to the artist my utter indignation at being expected to bring off anything endurable under such conditions. The aplomb with which the artist (an extremely good one) treated me, put me in a really good humour, and with the remark : " Well, all things are possible if you can do anything with me," I took my stand in complete amazement, thinking to myself : " I daresay it will turn out quite good enough for the Brusselers." I now remember realising, also, how incredibly rapidly the functions of the brain obey the passing mood, and can link the nearest with the most remote. I had been photographed before in Paris, and, without my being aware of it, the brute of an artist had thought fit to pose me in a most affected attitude, my eyes cocked sideways : the resulting portrait is an abomination to me, making me look, as I've protested, just like a sentimental Marat.* That wretched effigy has been used for the Illustration, and — still more hideously distorted — since gone the round of like illustrated journals (even in England now). — Well, my abhorrence of it instinctively led me at the Brussels operation to try for a more seemly expression, to give myself without a grain of affectation a tranquil, reasonable look. And the very irony of this whole process brought me to the right frame of mind in a twinkling : all my surroundings vanished, and quietly I gazed across the world as if it weren't the least concern of mine. Merely a wish remained, mayhap, to see my Jupiter : perchance it may strike you that he really did ray down a glimmer on me. Now I've told you all about my birthday, and everything connected with it. Yesterday you dipped your goblet in the fountain [of Trevi], and drained a cup for me as well : O my child, how fair a thing you wished me then ! Believe me, no fonder aspiration could the gods fulfil me, than to let you drink me welcome to that fount ; through you to learn Rome's fairest mysteries, the which I have to thank already for so great a happiness, since they have been so dear and salutary to yourself. So let us set our hopes on Jupiter !— 234 WAGNER TO MATrHLDE? WESENDONCK
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, No. 104