Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt, vol 2 | Page 5

the part here twice.
Zigesar has also asked X. to sing Ortrud, and has offered her as well as
Tichatschek very decent terms, but her answer is somewhat vague and
undecided: "Unless I have to go to England at that time," etc.
Tichatschek is again behaving splendidly on this occasion, and I thank
you for the few friendly lines you have written to him, for he really
deserves it by his warm friendship for you and your works. He came to
Leipzig together with Krebs, and during the entr'acte we met at the
buffet, when he told me that you had written to him, which I was very
glad to hear. The Hartels have sent you three hundred thalers for the

nine pieces from "Lohengrin."
Farewell, and let me soon hear from you.
Your
FRANZ.
January 8th, 1854.

144.
DEAREST FRIEND,
The "Rhinegold" is done, but I also am done for. Latterly I had
intentionally dulled my feeling by means of work, and avoided every
opportunity of writing to you before its completion. Today is the first
forenoon when no pretext prevents me any longer from letting the
long-nourished and pent-up grief break forth. Let it break forth, then. I
can restrain it no longer.
In addition to your very kindly notice of the Leipzig "Lohengrin," I also
received that of the "Deutsche Allgemeine"
Zeitung, and discover in it the scornful punishment inflicted upon me
for the crime I committed against my being and my inmost conscience
when, two years ago, I became unfaithful to my rightful determination
and consented to the performance of my operas. Alas! how pure and
consistent with myself was I when I thought only of you and Weimar,
ignored all other theatres, and entirely relinquished the hope of any
further success.
Well, that is over now. I have abandoned my purpose, my pride has
vanished, and I am reduced to humbly bending my neck under the yoke
of Jews and Philistines.
But the infamous part is that by betraying the noblest thing in my

possession I have not even secured the prize which was to be the
equivalent. I remain, after all, the beggar I was before.
Dearest Franz, none of my latter years has passed without bringing me
at least once to the verge of the resolution to put an end to my life.
Everything seems so waste, so lost! Dearest friend, art with me, after all,
is a pure stop-gap, nothing else, a stop-gap in the literal sense of the
word. I have to stop the gap by its means in order to live at all. It is
therefore with genuine despair that I always resume art; if I am to do
this, if I am to dive into the waves of artistic fancy in order to find
contentment in a world of imagination, my fancy should at least be
buoyed up, my imagination supported. I cannot live like a dog; I cannot
sleep on straw and drink bad whisky. I must be coaxed in one way or
another if my mind is to accomplish the terribly difficult task of
creating a non-existing world. Well, when I resumed the plan of the
"Nibelungen" and its actual execution, many things had to co-operate in
order to produce in me the necessary, luxurious art-mood. I had to
adopt a better style of life than before; the success of "Tannhauser,"
which I had surrendered solely in this hope, was to assist me. I made
my domestic arrangements on a new scale; I wasted (good Lord,
wasted!) money on one or the other requirement of luxury. Your visit
in the summer, your example, everything, tempted me to a forcibly
cheerful deception, or rather desire of deception, as to my
circumstances. My income seemed to me an infallible thing. But after
my return from Paris my situation again became precarious; the
expected orders for my operas, and especially for "Lohengrin," did not
come in; and as the year approaches its close I realise that I shall want
much, very much, money in order to live in my nest a little longer. I
begin to feel anxious. I write to you about the sale of my rights to the
Hartels; that comes to nothing. I write to Berlin to my theatrical agent
there. He gives me hopes of a good purchaser, whom I refer to the first
performance of "Lohengrin" at Leipzig. Well, this has taken place, and
now my agent writes that after such a success he has found it
impossible to induce the purchaser to conclude the bargain, willing as
he had previously been.
Confess that this is something like a situation. And all this torture, and

trouble, and care about a life which I hate, which I curse! And, in
addition to this, I appear ridiculous before my