Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt — Volume 2

by Richard Wagner; Franz Liszt

165.

DEAREST FRANZ,

Did you really think for a moment that I had conceived the idea of giving concerts in order to make propaganda for myself, or to make music, or what not? Did you not see at once that this plan was purely the result of despair at my miserable pecuniary situation, and that the only question that required an answer was whether or not I could make money by it, money in return for an unheard-of sacrifice, an act of self-abnegation, which probably I should not have been able to go through with after all? How badly I must have expressed myself! Excuse me for having given rise to such a misunderstanding, and be thanked all the more for the trouble you took nevertheless.

My dear, worthy friend, how proud and happy was I not three years ago, before I had done anything out of keeping with the full consciousness of my antagonistic position towards our artistic publicity. When at that time you, with your friendly anxiety, were intent upon getting "public recognition" for me and a wider field for my works, I used to smile and guard myself against every temptation. But the demon took hold of me; in my terribly bare life, my inclination began to grow again towards some of the amenities of existence; I yielded to temptation, surrendered my scores, was surprised at their success, and—hoped. I now curse this hope. I feel humiliated before myself, because I seek in vain release from this grief of self-reproach.

Hulsen has told X. that the whole thing in connection with me was DONE. Fortunately I was able to comfort X. with the thought that HE had not done it; but Hulsen is right: the thing is "done for." What finally could enlighten me better as to the truth and genuineness of my successes than the fact that in the very places where they had been gained, and with every conceivable trouble, the loan of—I must speak plainly—1,000 thalers could not be raised amongst my "admirers?" This very trivial matter speaks volumes to me.

Pray, dearest Franz, do not talk to me of my fame, my honours, my position, or whatever the name may be. I am positively certain that all my "successes" are based on BAD, very BAD, performances of my works, that they therefore rest on misunderstandings, and that my public reputation is not worth an empty nutshell. Let us give up all diplomatic contrivances, this dealing with means which we despise for ends which, closely considered, can never be achieved, least of all by those means. Let us leave alone this COTERIE, this connection with idiots who in a body have no notion of what we really aim at. I ask you, What satisfaction, what pleasure, can we derive from the assistance of all these silly people, whatever their names may be? I sometimes cannot understand your ironical enjoyment of life, which gets over your disgust at these people by making fun of them. Away with all this stuff, this "glory," this nonsense! We live at a time when glory can bring neither joy nor honour.

Listen to me: "Tannhauser" and "Lohengrin" I have thrown to the winds; I do not want to know any more of them. When I gave them over to theatrical jobbery, I cast them out, I condemned them to the task of begging for me, of getting me money, NOTHING BUT MONEY. Even for that purpose I should not like to employ them if I were not compelled to do so. After the insight which I have gained this summer, I should willingly submit to the penance of selling all my goods and chattels, and go, naked as I am, into the wide world, where—I swear it to you—no illusion should tempt me any more. But my wife could not bear such a violent step again; I know it would kill her. Well then, FOR HER SAKE I am resolved to go on. "Tannhauser" and "Lohengrin" must go to the Jews. But I am unable to wait and see how much more they might bring me in in certain patiently looked-for contingencies than now, when I am compelled to get rid of them at any price, and the sooner the better. Tell me, dearest friend, how do matters stand at Berlin? Did you merely rely upon making our condition plausible to Herr von Hulsen, or had you prepared other means of securing your honourable invitation to Berlin? I am almost inclined to believe the latter, and to hope in consequence that you will soon be able to announce our triumph. The want of Berlin for my operas involves the delay of the rest of the business, and I assure you that the spreading of my operas is entirely a matter of BUSINESS to me. This is the only real point; all the rest is, and remains, fictitious. Let us not attempt to look upon the matter in any serious light except as regards money. I should despise myself if I paid any attention to anything beyond this. For me the song of the "world" was sung to an end long ago.

And do you know what has confirmed me in this sentiment, inspiring me with new pride? It is YOUR WORK ABOUT THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN." In this series of articles I have once more clearly recognized myself, and have come to the conclusion that we have nothing in common with this world. WHO DID EVER UNDERSTAND ME? You, and no one else. Who understands YOU? I, and no one else. Be sure of it. You, for the first and only time, have disclosed to me the joy of being wholly understood. My being has passed into yours; not a fibre, not the gentlest tremor of my heart, remains that you have not felt with me. But I also see that THIS ALONE means being really understood, while all else is misunderstanding and barren error. What do I want more after having experienced this? What do you want of me after having experienced this with me? Let the tear of a beloved woman mingle with this joy, and what else can we desire? Do not let us desecrate our own selves. Let us look upon the world through the medium of contempt alone. It is worth nothing else; to found any hope on it would be deceiving our own hearts; it is BAD, BAD, THOROUGHLY BAD: only the heart of a FRIEND, the tears of a woman, can dispel its curse. We do not respect the world. Its honour, its glory, or by whatever name its shams may be called, are nothing to us. It belongs to Alberich, to no one else. Let it perish! I have said enough; you now know my sentiment, which is not a momentary emotion, but as firm and solid as adamant. That sentiment alone gives me strength to drag on the burden of life. But I must henceforth cling to it inexorably. I have a deadly hatred of all APPEARANCE, of all hope, for it is self-deception. But I will work; you shall have my scores; they will belong to us, to no one else. That is enough. You have the "Rhinegold," have you not? I have got to the second act of the "Valkyrie": Wotan and Fricka. I shall succeed, you will see.

Farewell.

Are you going to write to my wife?