Penzing, August 3, 1863. Dearest Meisterin, According to your last dear lines * I might strictly have looked for " further particulars " from Schwalbach. Meantime I ran over to Pesth, whither I had been invited by the Hungarians, to give two " concerts." f I got back a few days since, and found at least the promised lamp ; which I find most beautiful and masterly, and would have you freely thanked for. — With my haven it's so-so, really curious ! The need of a more permanent foothold, with a suitable pleasant abode, had become overpowering ; I felt that only from a similar base could I look out on the world once more — for a final time — to discover how things stand twixt it and me. Well, I find they don't stand for the best, and heartily repent having laid out my poor hard earnings on securing the expensive basis for that step in knowledge. As nobody seems inclined to take me in, I should have put my few thousand Russian roubles to better use by buying myself into the first Italian hospice and leaving the world to go its way ; for I really don't see any need of me in it. It is the honest truth I'm telling you, and calmly from the bottom of my soul ! Were I to count up all the queer mischances that have dogged me since my departure from Switzerland, you yourself could only see therein a wellnigh systematic reckoning of Fate's, to turn me from my purpose. I have no luck ; and it takes a little luck to keep a man like myself under the delusion that he belongs to the world. — Meisterin, it is not well with me, and I'm aweary of life, — as I plainly ascertained the other day, when at instant peril of death. It happened near Pesth on the Danube, in the same boat two young Hungarian cavaliers had sailed from Rotterdam to Pesth. A spirited lady, Grafin Bethlen, mother of six children, had undertaken to steer ; at a sudden squall she grew alarmed, and brought the boat too near the wind ; the waves dashed it against a raft, and it cracked in two. Well, compassion for the mother seized me, but so singular a sense of comfort for my private self, so buoyant and so bracing that our young-folks could hardly contain their wonder at my conduct, as they would rather have expected great excitement from such a nervous man as me. When they began praising me — for I did a little toward the rescue — I had almost to burst out laughing ! What is the use ? Dying is no such easy job, especially if one's time hasn't come yet ; and that must be the case with me, except that I cannot see at all what I am spared for. To be something, perhaps, to my dear ones ! ? Could I be less to them when they know that I am dead, than now when I'm cut off on every side and merely suffer? Personally I can be nothing more to anybody, — and my spirit? That remains with them, whilst it quickens my heart no more. I have no zest any longer, — for nothing. All devoutness fails me, all concentration ; a deep, restless distraction sways my inner man ; I have no present, quite palpably no future, of belief not a speck. To be sure, the right artistic function, the representing of my own new works, might have made a great difference ; but my return to Germany has dealt the death-blow to that. It is an abominable country, and a certain [Arnold] Ruge is right in saying, " The German is vile." * Not a trace of hope exists there, and you may judge how it stands with my erst-presumed high patrons, when I tell you that I have been invited to repeat my Vienna concerts by the Czechs of Prague, the Russians, the Hungarians, whereas I am certain that my precious Germans would decline me if I made an offer of myself. In Berlin the Intendant refused to accept my call, and so on; since my return from Russia I haven't found it possible to look up a soul belonging to this theatre as yet : my loathing of these people is so strong, that I am incapable of undertaking anything else for which I should require them. Everybody who knows anything, finds that perfectly natural ; only, it also means the close of my career. Believe me, it is a strange feeling; to know that even you are really not acquainted with my works ; I have simply to conduct a morsel of them properly, and even the most gifted and experienced of my disciples at once admit that they had as good as no conception of the piece before. What, then, is my spirit, what my works ? — without me, they exist for no one ! Yes, that makes my humble person of great weight to me ; only — this personality itself exists for none but me, and that's a bad business. Something, no doubt, may be said on the other side, including words of comfort, of emphatic flattery ; but it avails with me no longer.: I hear they are words, even see it when they're written — as for that matter, nearly all my intercourse with men is carried on by letter now. What am I to do with my haven, then, despite portfolio and lamp ? A knotty point, especially with my great distraction. I turn and twist it in my mind : If I set myself a term again, a fixed number of years — say five, — how am I to start gaining them? That is growing very difficult, and to tell the truth, I don't know how. My needs are increasing, I've a double household to keep up — two altogether wretched ones ! — so my person has occurred to me. Nobody asks for my works, the world pays heed to nothing save the virtuoso ; now want has shewn me that I also am a virtuoso. At the head of an orchestra I appear to produce that effect- on these people ; the Hungarians, who hadn't a notion of my music, and live on nothing but Verdi etc. at their National-theatre, took in each single number from my Nibelungen, Tristan, Meistersinger, with quite incredible alacrity, — manifestly because it was I who presented and performed them. So, now that I am pondering how to gain my "time," I tell myself that I must make a concert-tour ; and that's what it most probably will come to. The worst of it is, I cannot stand it long or often, my over-exertion at such performances and rehearsals passes all measure ; yet I mean to try. Perhaps, if I were to ask you, you could arrange me such a " concert " of new scraps at Zurich itself; only it might be hard to contrive there, as my poor " person " needs very many other persons, to make a personal effect. Be that as it may, you will shortly hear of my giving concerts again here or there ; some will exclaim, " Didn't we tell you, he wants to make money ? " — perchance a few others, " They say, he wants to die ! " — Perhaps it will end all right, tho', and my Asyl (the how-many-eth ?) stand me in good stead for once ; the lamp will shine, portfolio fill,' and — a tea-set (my old one is not get-at-able !) agreeably refresh me* God ! everything is possible, and although my nerve-racked body's always feeling aches and pains, my doctor [Standhartner] laughs each time I ask him if it must not turn into a fatal illness soon. That ought to brisk one's spirits up ; and in truth, however wretched is one's health, it's health of a sort. Only, I can bear with solitude no longer ; the old retriever given me by my landlord, is really not enough. With my 50th year I came by a positive yearning for a daughterly element ; at Berlin a little while ago [end of April] when Biilow presented his baby girl to me with the regret that it was only a daughter, something flashed upon me and I told him, Be glad of it, for thou shalt have great joy of this daughter. Recently a maiden of 17 years and unimpeachable birth was recommended to me as gentle, willing to serve, and uncorrupted ; so I took her into my home, to dish me tea, look after my things, and be present at table and of an evening. God bless me, the trouble I had See pages 118 and 356; it is clear that Wagner uses the present tense here in a future sense, though Frau Wesendonck's answer mistakes it.— Tr. o to get the poor child out of the house again without wounding her feelings ! She was bored to death, longing for town again, but took every pains to conceal it ; so that my only way to create myself a relative happiness at last, by getting rid of her, had to be on the pretext of my journey [Pesth concerts, end of July]. Dear Lord ! and yet 'twere so simple to please me; how well I can get on even with my servants, I know by experience. I thought of Vreneli, who waited on me at Lucerne ; she couldn't leave. Now the elder sister of the girl sent home has applied to me ; she is more experienced, staid, seems well-disposed, and isn't unagreeable ; so I almost think of making one more trial with her.* You see how it is ; I have to try for everything with money now — presumably because I have so much of it ! — I'll let you know how it turns out. And now I perceive that I must put a little stopper on my writing, or Otto will have a right to tax me with exciting you ! To tell the truth, best lady, I find it hard to write a letter to you ; all the sweet that comforts me at times now, is nothing but a memory, lies back among the past. Of that I cannot, must not write ; and what remains ? How gladly would I tell you of a real pure joy, an agreeable experience from the present ; but whence derive, without inventing ? I have already told you I was nearly drowned, and that is all ! — Should I write you how I have been feted and applauded by the public here or there? Indeed I count it to those gentry's credit, and pride myself no little on my stirring people with my music to wellnigh the same enthusiasm as is wont to be evoked by balletdancers and that class of artists ; but God forgive me, I'm glad each time it's over, and do not think of it again if I can help it. Perhaps it's sheer ingratitude — one of my proved chief vices, you know. Here and there an agreeably-cheating apparition of more charm does flit across my gloom. For example : at Pesth I had a lovely bud-young singer, with the most soulful naive voice, for the rendering of cantlets of my Elsa ; she was Hungarian, pronounced German with delightful correctness, and probably had never heard anything right about music before in her life. I was quite touched, that my music should alight on something so pure and unsullied ; and the good child in her turn seemed so touched by myself and my music, that for the first time in her life she really felt. The outbreak of these feelings was inexpressibly pretty and moving, and many a one might have thought the damsel had conceived a sudden love for me : so that is someone else to have to " write " to. — See, I'm telling you all the good I can ; but I really know of nothing more, and am not even sure if you will count the last tale to my " good." — Still, it gives the letter a turn, and will enable you to tell your husband something of me after all. The poor fellow seems to have been having his full share of trouble ; I won't mention America (I have enough for myself with my Germany !) but to be continually plagued with a horrid pain in the throat, that often prevents him even contradicting (as he very amiably confessed to me), is misfortune enough and to spare. He thinks he will have to get into a situation, for once, where he wouldn't be tempted to speak at all ; I'll propose to him to exchange with myself for a couple of months — when I'm at Penzing, be it understood : not when I'm giving concerts, as he'd be done for in a fortnight then. — Really Otto must be heartilysick of me ! How he has tried to help me all along ; how often has he thought things must go right with me at last, — and ever I am stranded on the same old spot, nothing will fructify, — all's thrown away! Yes, and I believe it myself, all's squandered on me : sportsmen have a catchword about having " ein Waidmann gesteckt," i.e. one is under a spell that balks one's shot, — maybe that's the case with me ! — Now I don't know where to send this letter; July 15 you wrote me from Zurich that you would be back there in 3 weeks at the outside ; wherefore I think it safest to assume the 3 weeks are run out, and put the old address on it. Farewell and be thanked a thousand times for your existence ; you still exist, — so I suppose I, too, must co-exist a little, in a fashion ! Best greetings to husband and children ; they're to go on thinking decently of me. The long sheet of gossip is ended ; may it not make you too dismal ! Remember that at least I have been still able to write it ! — Adieu, best Meisterin ! Your R. W.
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, No. 138