Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt, vol 2 | Page 7

I can ease my heart a little.
Dearest friend, this continual suffering is becoming at last intolerable.
Always to submit to things, never, even at the risk of one's own
perdition, to give a turn to the wheel of suffering and to determine its
direction--that must at last rouse the meekest of men to revolt. I must
now act, do something. Again and again the thought comes to me of
retiring to some distant corner of the world, although I know full well
that this would mean only FLIGHT, not the conquest of a new life, for I
am too LONELY. But I must at least begin something that will make
my life, such as it is, sufficiently tolerable to enable me to devote
myself to the execution and completion of my work, which alone can
divert my thoughts and give me comfort. While here I chew a beggar's
crust, I hear from Boston that "Wagner nights" are given there. Every
one persuades me to come over; they are occupying themselves with
me with increasing interest; I might make much money there by
concert performances, etc. "Make much MONEY!" Heavens! I don't
want to make money if I can go the way shown to me by my longing.
But if I really were to undertake something of this kind, I should even
then not know how to get with decency out of my new arrangements
here in order to go where I could make money. And how should I feel
there?
Alas! this is so impossible that the impossibility is equalled only by the
ridiculous position into which I sink when I commence brooding over
the possibility of the plan. My work, my "Nibelungen," would then of

course be out of the question.
This WORK is truly the only thing which still ties me to the desire of
life. When I think of sacrifices and demand sacrifices, it is for this work;
in it alone I discover an object of my life. For its sake I must hold out,
and hold out here, where I have got a foothold, and have settled down
to work. If I consider it rightly, all my intended action can only have
the object of enabling me to hold out till the completion of my work.
But for that very reason I can DO nothing; all must be done by
OTHERS. On that account I latterly again felt the liveliest desire to
obtain my amnesty, and thus to gain free access to Germany. In that
case I might at least be active in helping on the performances of my
operas. I might at last produce "Lohengrin" myself, while as it is I
torture myself for the sake of it. The most necessary thing for the
moment seems to me to repair the Leipzig disaster; I was on the point
of venturing there without passport and of endangering my personal
liberty (good God! "liberty!" What irony!). In calmer moments I
intended to write to the King of Saxony, till this also appeared quite
useless and even dishonourable to me. Then again, as lately as last
night, I thought of writing to the Grand Duke to explain my new
situation to him and to ask him for his energetic intercession at Dresden.
But this morning early I came to think that this also would be in vain,
and probably you agree with me. Where can ENERGY and real WILL
be found? Everything has to be done by halves, quarters, or even tenths
or twelfths, a la X.
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