In the following November Wagner wrote to me again. It was the first of a series of letters relative to the purchase of a costly edition of Shakespeare, in English, as a birthday present to Madame Wagner. I publish six of these. They show Wagner by the fireside, at home with wife and children. Nearly sixty, with the close of his life almost in sight, he first bathes in that unspeakable happiness—the presence of children constantly about him, ready to receive the pent-up affection of half a century. It seems to me that his state of mind will be best understood by a few words, taken from the closing paragraph of his letter of the 25th November, 1870: “God make every one happy. Amen!”
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“A SPLENDID SON.”
Dear Old One: If you are still alive, and not angry with me for various reasons, you could do me a right good service. I should like to make a present to my wife (you know the deep, serious happiness that has been mine) on her birthday, which falls just on Christmas Eve,—a present of one of the most beautiful editions of Shakespeare in English. I do not so much want one of those editions with a voluminous appendix of critical notes as a really luxurious edition of the text. If such an edition de luxe is only published with notes, and so forth, well, then I will have that. I know that in this respect the English have achieved something extraordinary, and it is just one of their grand editions I should like to possess. Further, it must be encased in a truly magnificent binding, and of the greatest beauty. All this, I feel sure, can only be obtained for certain in London. Now be so good as to occupy yourself in the most friendly manner for me. Deem me worthy of a response and a note of the price, that we may arrange everything, and I will forthwith send you the necessary funds.
How are you all at home? I hear that the English are making colossal profits by the war. I hope something of the good may fall to you. Your last letter coming after such a long time was a delightful surprise, and has given me much joy, for I perceive in it that you still are actively employed. Often do I now think of you because of your love for children. My house, too, is full of children, the children of my wife, but beside there blooms for me a splendid son, strong and beautiful, whom I dare call Siegfried Richard Wagner. Now think what I must feel, that this at last has fallen to my share. I am fifty-seven years old.
Be most fondly greeted.
From your
Richard Wagner.
Lucerne, 11 November, 1870.
(In pencil on the last page of the letter.)
Perhaps the director of the theatre might make me a present of a copy of Shakespeare.
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