Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt — Volume 1

by Richard Wagner; Franz Liszt

From all the letters of Hulsen and my brother I could in the meantime see perfectly well that these people were without any understanding of what was to me essential and important in this matter; that in all their views they were so totally incapable of leaving the grooves of routine that I should have to fear they would never understand my desire to invite you to Berlin. I confess that I had some anxiety on the point, but at last I wrote to Hulsen myself as clearly, warmly, cordially, and persuasively as was in my power; I at once called his attention to the fact that the hostility of the very insignificant Berlin conductors would be as nothing compared with the favourable influence which you would exercise on every side; in short, I wrote in such a manner that I could not believe in the possibility of an unfavourable answer. Read that answer, and take notice that I have once more met with my usual fate: the fate of calling out to the world with my whole soul and of having my calls echoed by walls of leather. I am now discussing with myself what I shall do. To give up everything and simply demand my score back—that would be most agreeable to me. As yet I have not replied with a line to either Hulsen or X. What do you think? Or shall I look on indifferently, amuse myself when I can make a hundred thalers, buy champagne, and turn my back upon the world? It is a misery.

I am going from bad to worse every day, and lead an indescribably worthless life. Of real enjoyment of life I know nothing; to me "enjoyment of life, of love," is a matter of imagination, not of experience. In this manner my heart has to go to my brain, and my life becomes an artificial one; only as an "artist" I can live; in the artist my whole "man" has been sunk.

If I could visit you in Weimar and see a performance of my operas now and then, I might perhaps still hope to recover. I should there find an element of incitement, of attraction for my artistic being; perhaps a word of love would meet me now and then;—but here! Here I must perish in the very shortest space of time, and everything—everything will come too late, too late! So it will be.

No news can give me pleasure any more; if I were vain and ambitious, it would be all right; as I am, nothing "written" can attract me. All this comes—too late!

What shall I do? Shall I implore the King of Saxony, or perhaps his ministers, for mercy, humble myself, and confess my repentance? Who can expect that of me?

You, my only one, the dearest whom I have, you who are to me prince and world, everything together, have mercy on me.

But calm! calm! I must write to you about the "Faust" overture. You beautifully spotted the lie when I tried to make myself believe that I had written an "Overture to 'Faust'." You have felt quite justly what is wanting; the woman is wanting. Perhaps you would at once understand my tone-poem if I called it "Faust in Solitude".

At that time I intended to write an entire "Faust" symphony; the first movement, that which is ready, was this "solitary Faust," longing, despairing, cursing. The "feminine" floats around him as an object of his longing, but not in its divine reality, and it is just this insufficient image of his longing which he destroys in his despair. The second movement was to introduce Gretchen, the woman. I had a theme for her, but it was only a theme. The whole remained unfinished. I wrote my "Flying Dutchman" instead. This is the whole explanation. If now, from a last remnant of weakness and vanity, I hesitate to abandon this "Faust" work altogether, I shall certainly have to remodel it, but only as regards instrumental modulation. The theme which you desire I cannot introduce; this would naturally involve an entirely new composition, for which I have no inclination. If I publish it, I shall give it its proper title, "Faust in Solitude", or "The Solitary Faust", "a tone-poem for orchestra."

My new poems for the two "Siegfrieds" I finished last week, but I have still to rewrite the two earlier dramas, "Young Siegfried" and "Siegfried's Death", as very considerable alterations have become necessary. I shall not have finished entirely before the end of the year. The complete title will be "The Ring of the Nibelung", "a festival stage-play in three days and one previous evening: previous evening, "The Rhinegold"; first day, "The Valkyrie"; second day, "Young Siegfried"; third day, "Siegfried's Death." What fate this poem, the poem of my life and of all that I am and feel, will have I cannot as yet determine. So much, however, is certain: that if Germany is not very soon opened to me, and if I am compelled to drag on my artistic existence without nourishment and attraction, my animal instinct of life will soon lead me to abandon art altogether. What I shall do then to support my life I do not know, but I shall not write the music of the "Nibelungen", and no person with human feelings can ask me to remain the slave of my art any longer.

Alas! I always relapse into the miserable keynote of this letter. Perhaps I commit a great brutality in this manner, for perhaps you are in need of being cheered up by me. Pardon me if today I bring nothing but sorrow. I can dissemble no longer; and, let who will despise me, I shall cry out my sorrow to the world, and shall not conceal my misfortune any longer. What use would it be if I were to lie to you? But of one thing you must think, if nothing else is possible: we must see each other next summer. Consider that this is a necessity; that it must be; that no god shall prevent you from coming to me, as the police (make a low bow!) prevent me from coming to you. Promise me for quite certain in your next letter that you will come. Promise me!