So I sit down again, cross my arms, and surrender myself to pure, unalloyed SUFFERING. I can do nothing, except create my "Nibelungen"; and even that I am unable to do without great and energetic help.
My dearest, my only friend, listen. I CAN do nothing unless others do it for me. The sale of the rights of my operas must be brought about, unless I am to free myself from my situation by violent means. In the way of pure business this has become impossible by the Leipzig performance, which, if my wish and my conditions had been observed, would not have taken place; it must be simply a work of friendship. To no one but you can I explain myself accurately, because you are the only one who can understand at its true estimate, and without a shake of the head, my position, such as it has been brought about by my moods, inclinations, whims, and wants. How can I expect a Philistine to comprehend the transcendent part of my nature, which in the conditions of my life impelled me to satisfy an immense inner desire by such external means as must to him appear dangerous, and certainly unsympathetic? No one knows the needs of people like us; I am my self frequently surprised at considering so many "useless" things indispensable. To YOU alone can I explain how painfully I am placed, and how necessary immediate help is to me. This is the first and most indispensable thing to preserve me for my whole future. Owing to my extreme sensitiveness in this matter, I shall otherwise be compelled—because for such a frivolous reason I do not want to take my own life—to start at once and fly to America.
I am in a pitiful condition, and I know that to such a friend as you pity comes from love. Give me up if you can; that will settle all. With my terrible care my violent nervous disorder has also returned. During my work I frequently felt quite well; the thunder-clouds seemed to have cleared away. I often felt beautifully elevated, gently supported; generally I was silent, but it was from inner joy; even hope wound itself softly round my heart; the children of fable came to the weeping elf, saying, "Weep not; thou too mayst still be happy." But the word resounded from farther and farther distance, till at last I could hear it no longer. Silence! now the old night holds me again; let it devour me altogether!
Pardon me. I CANNOT help it.
Farewell, my Franz; farewell; farewell.
Your
R. W.
146.
Dear Friend,
You were going to send me your "Kunstler." Why does it not arrive?