Paris, Sept. 30, 60. My dear precious Child. Hitherto it had only been unwellness that seemed to seem to allow a pause in my affairs ; to-day, however, I must wrest me a free hour for once — if free I mean to be. — Ah, how the child is revelling in Raphael and paintings ; how beautiful it is, how sweet and reassuring ! Only myself does that manner of thing refuse to so much as touch : I still am the vandal who, after a whole year of residence in Paris, hasn't got the length yet of a visit to the Louvre ! Does that not tell you everything? — And how goes it with me otherwise? — Imagine that I'm trying now with all my might to pump up music, as Venus has got to take singing-lessons J How do I feel with it? — You know I'm always writing dumb (or rather, invisible) letters to you. In one of them I wrote a deal about two tiny Indian birds that had come into my home here, and I would not let be given away because they sang quite exquisitely in the summer, and always cheered me up at breakfast ; the little cock and little hen had each its own peculiar stave of melody, most delicate, most melancholy. At last, on my return from the Rhine expedition about mid-August,* I hear the hen not at all, and her mate doing nothing but twittering, striving with more and more distress to find his stave of melody again : — in vain, he could not take it ; he was unable to sing any more ! I had not noticed it myself, but merely heard, that birds grow dumb at summer's end and don't begin their song again till Spring draws nigh ; so I judged that their affairs were finished thereabouts, and they forgot their singing just because they no longer felt a need of it. But this taught me something different : my little male seemed quite astonished at himself, that he had lost his tune and no attempt could bring it back to him. It took strong hold upon my mind, this alienation of the inmost nature, this failure of the power of melody. To whom does that belong, then, — to the bird, or to someone who simply lends it him ? Certain it is, that nothing save a state of ecstasy renders him capable of melody ; at the proper time this state becomes so much a habit to him, that when the other season comes, he's quite aghast at seeing the magic suddenly reft him. I suppose he gets used to it at last ; something inside must tell him, in Spring he'll have the power to sing again ! Much did I write you on that theme ; for his twittering and painful chirping lasted for some time. — But now, imagine it — another letter ! — one morn his little wife starts twittering — and gets her whole tune correct ! Fully ten times in succession did she pipe it ! — I was beside myself, — what could it mean ? Was it an anomaly ? Are there exceptions in Nature too ? Be that as it may, the little hen had managed it, though I have not heard her since. — Ah, if the sky would but clear for once ! How am I to put up even with that for over a year? It's no use grumbling, though ; in spite of sky and autumn days, compose I must. And I've been literating also ; I shall send you the book very soon [cf. p. 239]. The verses for my Tannhäuser are not in German trim yet : I'm giving you the draft after which they've been carried out in French. And those French verses I have had to compose ! What do you say to that ? God knows ! everything comes right in the end ; but how ? — Yet all this occupation comes in pat ; it masks the world-estrangedness in which I shall always remain. Hold out I must ; it is the will of that same power which bids my dickybirds to sing and cease. But as for any actual thinking of myself, I dare not often do it ; for nothing's there but dreary waste. That I have to try and people with affairs ; and if the latter go against my grain, why ! cares merely make one live longer ; and Care is aye a faithful dame. — But don't entertain any false notions ! I'd bind myself by violence to nothing, and least of all engage in this Paris Tannhäuser, for instance, were I obliged to importune for aught here, to say nothing of making a sacrifice. On the contrary, I put a good face on this foolish game since people bring so good a face to meet me. As far as reproductions of my works go, never in my life have I been so well-treated, nor am I ever likely to be again : no matter what I ask, is done; nowhere the smallest withstanding. The pianoforte rehearsals have now commenced, and time is devoted in the very best sense. Every detail is submitted to my approval : thrice have I rejected the plans for the scenery, before they drew them to my mind ; but all will be perfect now, and — even if it doesn't attain the ideal — at any rate the representation will be the best that has taken place yet, or can take place again for ever so long. My pillar of strength is my giant Niemann ; the man has inexhaustible capabilities. He's almost raw at present, and owes everything to instinct until now ; but he has nothing else to do, for months, than let himself be led by me : we study it all to the very last dot. — For Elisabeth I have likewise a half-novice, Sax : her voice is wonderful and not yet spoilt, her talent promising ; she's completely under my thumb. — Venus — Mad. Tedesco, expressly engaged for me — has a superb head for her r61e, only the figure is just a shade too ample ; talent very considerable and well-suited. — Wolfram gave us the greatest trouble of all ; finally I got a Sig. Morelli engaged, a man of magnificent presence and splendid voice: I must try how to coach him. Luckily the opera isn't to be given till I'm perfectly satisfied with the rehearsals ; and that's of weight — I couldn't let so momentous an offer go begging ! — The Op6ra people already have taken a liking to me ; there is no constraint in any of my relations with them now ; they have begun to understand me, gainsay me in nothing, and are delighted at all the fine doings ahead. So everything would be well, if it were only a little better with the rest of my existence. There nothing helps : I wake up sad, and sadly go to bed. The bad weather may have something to say in it ; but the moments of wellbeing are growing all too rare, and disquiet, ay, dread, stretch ever broader. — But don't pay too much heed to these complaints : after all I still am open to the greatest sense of wellbeing, so soon 250 WAGNER TO MATHU.DE WESENDONCK as any really fine impression comes. On my last birthday, you know, it was the east-wind did it ; to-day we've had the first autumnal fog, which forcibly reminded me of Zurich. Perhaps it means fair weather, and that will help me much. — Already I've been working a bit at the music of my new scene. Remarkable : all the inward-empassionate, what I might almost term the feminine-ecstatic, I could do absolutely nothing with at the time I wrote my Tannhäuser ; there I've been compelled to throw down everything and build anew, — in fact, I'm horrified at my erst property- Venus ! Well, that, I'm sure, will go much better this time (especially if the fog brings good weather) ; but the brisk, the joy-of-lifed, all this is good in the Tannhäuser, and I cannot make the smallest alteration there. Further, whatever bears the legend's scent about it, already has the atmosphere : Tannhäuser's lament and penance thoroughly successful, the [instrumental] groupings not to be improved, except that I have had to touch up passionate features now and then before ; for instance, at Tannhäuser's outburst in the finale of the second act I have replaced a very tame passage for the violins by a new one, which is very difficult, but the only one to satisfy me. I can ask anything of my orchestra here, however ; it's the first in all the world. Enough of Tannhäuser. — From time to time I've also gossiped much with you on people I had met : for the moment I know of nothing to single out, without giving it an air of more importance than it has. On the whole, I continue to lead a thoroughly lonely life ; nothing suits me better. Yet my loneliness itself is often one of discontent : what helps me then ? — Sweet memories, and — sleep. — Having taken a great dislike to plans, I have projected absolutely none as yet, even for a production of the Tristan ; I keep thinking the right thing is bound to turn up of itself some day. Meanwhile Queen Victoria has taken it into her head to want to hear my Lohengrin this winter ; the director of Covent Garden Theatre has looked me up, and the Queen wants Lohengrin in English. It would have to be in February, but I know nothing more precise about it, nor even if I shall be able to entertain it. It would be droll, though, were I to hear this work in English for my own first time ! — r - And now I shall soon be moving out ; from the 1 5th of October on, my address is 3 Rue d'Aumale. It is a smaller dwelling, and I hope not to have to write either poetry or music in it, as all it's fit for is a counting-house. I half lost my law-suit ; not a sou of compensation do I get. Ah, when have I ever arrived at anything? This has been a bad, a most unlucky business ; the house itself, which I chose just for sake of its quiet, had become noisy beyond all bearing through the demolition of this quarter. They declare that my propridtaire was unaware of it : quite possible !* — Well, child, with you it has fared better; my only consolation ! Heaven bless your lovely pictures, and the portrait above all ! * I quite expect to see all that, myself, ere long. — A thousand kind regards to Otto ; I'll write him the very next time. Just one thing more. On the Rhine, not far from Rolandseck, blonde slips of children got on board, then off again, — quite in the children's way : one of them looked, in fact, like Myrrha ! How well I knew that you were once at home there ! — A thousand greetings, and the whole of my heart ! — R. W. And now for the draft of the new Tannhäuser verses. Get out your book ! Turn to " Venus (breaking into wrath) " — after Tannhäuser's third stanza — down to the words : " Zieh hin, Bethorter, suche dein Heil ! " Suche dein Heil, und find' es nie ! " — Then something like this is to follow : — " Die du bekampft, die du besiegt, " Die du verhohnt mit jubelndem Stolz, " Flehe sie an, die du verlacht ; '' [etc.*]
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, No. 107