R. W.
LONDON, April 5th, 8:30 evening.
185.
DEAREST RICHARD,
I had nothing to tell you that was pleasant or important, and therefore did not write to you for a long time. During these last weeks I have spun myself into my mass, and yesterday at last I got it done. I do not know how it will sound, but may say that I have PRAYED it rather than COMPOSED it. On my return from Hungary in September, I shall bring you the mass and my symphonic bubbles and troubles, half of which will by that time be in print. If my scores should bore you, that will not prevent me from deriving sweetest enjoyment from your creations, and you must not refuse me the favour of singing the whole "Rhinegold" and "Valkyrie" to me. In the meanwhile all other musical things appear to me "stupid stuff."
How do you feel in London?
Troublesome though it may be, one must try to bear the inevitable and immutable; to take pleasure in it would be a lie.
The English edition of Philistinism is not a whit pleasanter than the German, and the chasm between the public and ourselves is equally wide everywhere.
How, in our wretched conditions, could enthusiasm, love, and art have their true effect?
"Patience and resignation" is our device, and to it we sing