Your
Richard Wagner.
P.S. Liszt will not come until October. Ask Klindworth to write to me. Thousand kind things from my wife.
Seelisberg, Canton Uri, 15th July, 1855.
In the next letter he speaks sorrowfully of the demon of ill-health which had settled in his house. Poor Minna suffered with heart-disease, an illness to which she eventually succumbed, whilst he, too, was somewhat broken down, and shortly to be laid upon a sick-bed. His only relief from worry and trouble was work. Indeed, the major portion of his work was done at times when the horizon was dark for him.
“TANNHÄUSER” AT MUNICH.
Best thanks, dear friend, for your letter, which was, alas, sad enough to make me sad too. The worst of misfortune in a life like yours is that in surveying all circumstances, it is positively unrectifiable: to revolt against it, even at the best, has still something ridiculous in it. To him, who like you suffers keenly (and amongst your surroundings must perforce suffer the most), all I can say is, think, dear friend, no man is happy except he who is foolish enough to think that he is. You and I are not fit for this life except to be tired of it; he who becomes so the soonest finishes his task the quickest. All so-called “fortunate events” are but deceptive palliations, making the evil worse. I know this is capable of being understood in a double sense, so that it might be interpreted either as a trivial commonplace or the deepest possible reflection. I must leave it to chance how you will understand it. The only ray of light in the dark night of our life is that which sympathy affords us. We only lose consciousness of our own misery when we feel that of others. Entire freedom from one’s own sorrow is only possible if one could live solely for the sorrows of others, but the evil of it is, that one cannot do this continually, as one’s own troubles always return the stronger to attack the feelings. I, for my part, must say that since in London I have never had my mind free from troubles. The demon of sickness has come to lodge in my house. My wife, particularly, causes me great anxieties. Her ever-increasing ill-health helps to render me very sad. Worried and troubled, I resumed work. I struggle at it, as work is the only power that brings to me oblivion and makes me free. Only look to it that next year you come to Switzerland; meanwhile amuse yourself as much as you can in your polemical war against London music-artists and critics, not on my account, however, but only as I believe it is a good channel to absorb your otherwise sad thoughts.
From New York I have just received an invitation to go over and conduct there for six months; it would be well paid. It is fortunate, however, that the emolument is not after all so very large, or else, perhaps, I might myself be obliged to seriously consider the matter. But of course I shall not accept the invitation. I had enough in London. I am somewhat fidgety that you have not yet acknowledged my three medallions, one for you, one for Sainton and Lüders, and one for Klindworth. I paid freight for them some time ago, and thought they would have been in your hands long before this. If you have not yet received them, I beg of you to make inquiries at the post-office, since I sent the little box from Basle by the mail, and your address was correctly written. Do not forget to speedily inform me of its arrival.
Please send at once to Berlin the box which I left at your house, containing my manuscripts, and address it to the Royal Music Director, Julius Stern, Dessauer Strasse No. 2. Do not prepay it. You may have some expense on my account which I will settle with you when we meet. Do not forget to mention it.
Perhaps you have heard already that “Tannhäuser” has created a perfect furore at Munich. I felt constrained to laugh at the sudden veering round in my favour when I remembered that only two years ago Lachner contrived that the performance of the overture to “Tannhäuser” should be a complete fiasco. On the whole, I live almost entirely isolated. Working, walking, and a little reading constitute my present existence. At present, I am expecting Liszt at Christmas. How fares my sister Leonie? Well, I hope. You write so ambiguously about it that I cannot make out the exact thing. How is the boy? Is he really called Richard Wagner? Are you not right glad to have him? Greet your dear wife for me with all my heart, and tell her I often think of her with pleasure, and of the friendly interest she took in me. My love to the poor hypochondriacal Lüders. How well I ought to have felt myself in London. When he became excited, he was irresistible. I will write to Sainton soon. He is happy, and finds himself best where he is.
Farewell, dear Ferdinand. A thousand thanks for your friendship. When things go badly with you, laugh at them.