Paris, July 22, 6o, Am I really to write at last on this dark page I so repeatedly have squared to hand? Am I to despatch you another account of myself? Or shall I wait until at least a day of sunshine gives pure sky to animate me with a breath of cheerfulness that I might gratefully devote to you? — Not even that boon will shew itself! West and South keep on prevailing, to tune my poor nerves to their lowest pitch. Which shall it be, then? Maybe you'll fret yourself more than you need, if I keep silence ! Even yourself, can you actually form a clear conception of my life ? I scarce can credit it, for perhaps it is not possible. I have lived to make the strange experience that I must end by withdrawing from almost every sign of sympathy extended to me, because I'm pulled up everywhere at last against a point where my odd position toward the world, and everything I do therein, falls victim to misunderstandings so manifest that I can but feel how people really take me — strictly speaking — for a sort of hypocrite. It is becoming very difficult, however, even to explain what I mean by that ; so that this perception in turn remains my secret, and the only consolation left me in face of the world is a curious one : that what it fancies it beholds in me is a thing it treats as common to us all, quite natural, and therefore not particularly blamable.* — No one, I am sure, could have less gladness, pleasure, or merely recreation, fleeting stimulus of any sort or kind, than I. Whatever I do or try to, never for a moment does it enter my head to prepare myself a pleasure, an enjoyment, by it; were it only since I've learnt to see more and more distinctly that what I sought has never thriven, but always turned into the opposite. To me this is so evident, that after a trip to Fontainebleau the other day— whither I had been attracted by the promise of fine trees — I took a firm resolve to think of no further distraction of any kind this summer, because so much, regarding which I've grown extremely sensitive, made me finish by recognising even in that trip an experience more replete with pain than pleasure. Not a soul invades my solitude whom I'm not more pleased to see depart ; at any stirring of the inextinguishable desire for intimacy, or were it but some trifling change, I have come to impress on myself that all conceivable fulfilment could only give me pain, and quietly bide at home, aware that I should never find the very tiniest refreshment tho' I sought it. I expect there's hardly anybody who can figure this entire and utter resignation, and least of all if one has children ! — And with all this unheard joylessness of existence to be moving in a world still, amid requirements and regards that almost always cast on me the light, in others' eyes, of one who shews himself inordinately grasping, — at last that leads me to the strangest sentiments in respect of this world. I tell you openly, the bitterness I have often confessed to you is disappearing more and more from me, and contempt is usurping its place. This feeling is not passionate : Wesendonck the transaction can scarcely have been a mystery, for the reference in letter 1 14 (vid. inf.) points to a prior communication thereof either to her husband or herself. — Mme Kalergis is the lady whose name by a second marriage (de Moukhanoff) adorns the dedication of the reprint of Wagner's Judaism in Music some nine years hence. — Tr. no, it gives me more and more tranquillity ; but no longer is there a relation of mine to anyone whatever, in which this feeling doesn't take the upper hand completely. And that spares my heart much : it's far less vulnerable now ; — I can despise where formerly I was enraged ! — So I pour my heart out much less freely, also, reflecting that I'm not the man for understanding through my actions, and hoping that something at least of my works will meet with understanding some fine day. Yet I may tell you thus much: my sense of purity alone confers on me this power. I feel myself pure of heart : in my inmost depth 1 know that I have ever wrought for others only, never for myself; and my perpetual sorrows are my witness. — But joy ? Ah, nothing more can give me joy ! And that's my solace : any joy, in which I caught myself, were my arraigner, and it were over with my right of proud disdain. — Thus to-day I am able to inform you with a curious sense of satisfaction that the notification of repeal of my banishment from Germany, delivered me a few days since, left me utterly cold and indifferent. Telegraphic congratulations have been raining cheers upon me : not a single one of them have I answered. Who would comprehend it, if I told him this is nothing to me but the opening of a new field of suffering, of suffering that certainly outweighs all chance of any kind of gratification, in measure as I see nothing in front of me but , sacrifices on my own part ? Whoever draws by accident a step too near me, appears to understand this of a sudden ; but 'tis nothing save a whiff of understanding ; he turns his back, and ere long he thinks I'm shamming after all. And those, too, are the middling best ; as for the remainder — Disgusting's the word ! I have a friend, however, of whom I grow fonder and fonder afresh : my old surly-faced and yet so deeply lovefilled Schopenhauer. When I've been fumbling the farthest and deepest, what a quite unique refreshment all at once, to dip into the pages of that book ; to see my sentiments so wholly understood and scheduled, but in that other tongue withal which soon turns sorrow to an object of cognition, transposing everything from Feeling to the cool, consoling marble of the Reason, and while it shews me to myself, at like time shewing me the whole wide world ! What a marvellous exchange is that, and of the most beatifying order ! And ever new is this effect, because it constantly is stronger. Thus calm is given, and contempt itself ascends to love : for all self-flattery has gone ; clear knowledge cools the brow of pain ; the creases smooth, and sleep regains its soothing power. And how beautiful [ ? * ], that the aged man knows nothing of all he is to me, of what I'm through him to myself! And now please let me call to mind a very different sort of friend. Laugh as you list, but I speak of a perfect angel I've always about me, a being of unswerving kindness, that cannot so much as look at me without lavishing a whole heap of glad caresses on me : 'tis the little dog you destined for me once upon your bed of sickness! Words fail to express the affection of this matchless beasty. Each afternoon we lose ourselves together in the Bois de Boulogne ; then I often think of my old peaceful Sihlthal ! Fare you well, dear kindly soul, and have my thanks ! —
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, No. 105