Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt, Volume 2

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Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt, Volume 2 (1889)

By Richard Wagner; Franz Liszt; Francis Hueffer (translator)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
CORRESPONDENCE OF WAGNER AND LISZT, Volume 2
INFO ABOUT THIS E-TEXT EDITION

BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

The German musical genius Richard Wagner (1811-1883) could be
considered to be one of the ideological fathers of early 20th
century German nationalism. He was well-suited for this role.
Highly intelligent, sophisticated, complex, capable of imagining
whole systems of humanistic philosophy, and with an intense need
to communicate his ideas, he created great operas which, in
addition to their artistic merits, served the peculiar role of
promoting a jingoistic, chauvenistic kind of Germanism. There are
things in his operas that only a German can fully understand,
especially if he would like to see his country closed off to
outsiders. It is unlikely, however, that Wagner expected these
ideas to achieve any popularity. Time and again he rails against
philistines, irrational people and politicians in his letters.
With great exasperation and often depression he expressed little
hope that his country would ever emerge out of its "philistinism"
and embrace "rational" ideas such as he propagated. Add to this
the great difficulties he had in getting his works performed, and
one might assume that he felt himself to be composing, most of
the time, to audiences of bricks. Yes, his great, intensely
beloved friend Liszt believed in, fully understood, and greatly
appreciated Wagner's works, but Liszt was just one in a million,
and even he, as Wagner suggested, associated with a base coterie
incapable of assimilating Wagnerian messages. Considering the
sorry state of music and intellectualism in Wagner's time and
setting, he surely would have been surprised if his operas and
his ideas achieved any wide currency. That he continued to work
with intense energy to develop his ideas, to fix them into
musical form and to propagate them, while knowing that probably
no sizeable population would ever likely take note of them, and
while believing that his existence as an underappreciated,
rational individual in an irrational world was absurd and futile,
is a testimony to the enormous will-power of this "ubermensch."

CORRESPONDENCE OF WAGNER AND LISZT, VOLUME 2

143.

DEAREST RICHARD,

Yesterday (Saturday, January 7th) first performance of
"Lohengrin" at Leipzig. The public, very numerous in spite of
double prices, displayed much sympathy and admiration for this
wonderful work. The first act went tolerably well as far as the
artists were concerned. Rietz conducted in a precise and decent
manner, and the ENSEMBLES had been carefully studied. The second
and third acts, however, suffered much from the faults and
shortcomings of both chorus and principals. Further performances
will, no doubt, show an improvement, although the Leipzig theatre
does certainly not possess the proper singers and scenic artists.
The flagging in the second act, which I previously took the
liberty of pointing out to you, was felt very much on this
occasion, and the public seemed painfully and unmistakably tired.
The tempi of the choruses seemed to me considerably too fast, and
there was more than one break-down in this scene. Altogether,
without self-conceit, I may say that the Leipzig performance is
inferior to ours, as you will probably hear from other quarters.
On the other hand the Leipzig public is in many respects superior
to ours, and I feel convinced that the external success of
yesterday's performance will prove very considerable indeed. The
grand success of this work can no longer be denied; of that we
should be glad, and the rest will follow sooner or later. The
actors, Rietz and Wirsing, were called after the first act, and
after the last the representatives of the principal parts had to
appear again. T., who had come from Paris for this performance,
was very dissatisfied with it. I toned him down, not thinking it
advisable to impair the chief thing by detailed criticism. Before
all, let it be stated that "Lohengrin" is the grandest work of
art which we possess so far, and that the Leipzig theatre by
performing it has done credit to itself.

If you have to write to Leipzig show yourself, to please me,
friendly and appreciative of their goodwill, and of the success
which cannot be denied. The only remark you might make concerns
the quick tempo of the choruses in Act II., Scene iii., and of
the "Lohengrin" passage in the third act

[Here, Liszt illustrates with a 4-bar musical score example
where the words, "Ath----mest Du nicht die su--ssen Dufte" are
sung.]

as compared with YOUR METRONOMIC INDICATION. This is the more
necessary as the chorus practically broke down, and these
passages failed to produce their due effect.

On the next birthday of the Grand Duchess (April 8th) "Lohengrin" will
be given here, with Gotze (at present professor of singing at the
Leipzig Conservatoire, late first tenor of this theatre) and Frau
Fastlinger, and about the middle of May Tichatschek will sing 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
visitors, and taste the delightful sensation of having
surrendered the noblest work of my life so far to the
predetermined stupidity of our theatrical mob and to the laughter
of the Philistine.

Lord, how must I appear to myself? I wish that at least I had the
satisfaction that some one knew how I appear to myself.

Listen, my Franz; you must help me! I am in a bad, a very bad,
way. If I am to regain the faculty of holding out (this word
means much to me), something thorough must be done in the
direction of prostituting my art which I have once taken,
otherwise all is over with me. Have you thought of Berlin again?
Something must be done there if all is not to come to a stop.

Before all, I must have money. The Hartels have been very
liberal, but what is the good of hundreds where thousands are
needed? If the Berlin purchase had come to something, I might at
least have used the offer in order to prove to a man of business
here that I possessed "capital," and to induce him to lend me the
necessary sum for three years, paying back one- third every year.
But this hope also has vanished. No one will undertake such an
affair unless he has personal confidence in my future (?)
successes. Such a man, dearest Franz, you must find for me. Once
more, I want from 3,000 to 4,000 thalers in order to find perfect
rest and equipoise. That much my operas may well bring me in in
three years IN CASE something real is done for "Lohengrin," so as
to save it. I am willing to lease my rights to the lender; my
rights in "Tannhauser" and "Lohengrin" shall be secured to him in
any way he thinks desirable or necessary. If I am not worthy of
such a service, then you must own that

I am in a bad way, and all has been a mistake! Help me over
this, and I will undertake once more to hold out.

Dear friend, do not be angry. I have a claim on you as on my
creator. You are the creator of the person I am now; I live
through you: it is no exaggeration. Take care of your creation. I
call this a duty which you have towards me.

The only thing I want is money; that at least one ought to be
able to get. Love I abandon, and art!

Well, the "Rhinegold" is ready, readier than I ever thought it
would be. I went to this music with so much faith, so much joy;
and with a true fury of despair I continued, and have at last
finished it. Alas! the need of gold held me too in its net.
Believe me, no one ever has composed in this manner; my music, it
seems to me, must be terrible; it is a slough of horrors and
sublimities.

I shall soon make a clean copy, black on white, and that will
probably be the end of it; or shall I give permission to have
this also performed at Leipzig for twenty louis d'or? I cannot
write more to you today. You are the only person to whom I could
tell such a thing; no one else has an idea of it, least of all
the people near me.

Do not think that the news of Leipzig has made me suddenly
desperate. I anticipated this, and knew everything beforehand. I
can also imagine that the Leipzig failure may still be repaired,
that "it is not as bad as we think," and much more to the same
effect. It may be, but let me see evidence. I have no faith, and
only one hope: sleep, sleep, so profound, so profound, that all
sensation of the pain of living ceases. That sleep at least is
within my reach; it is not so difficult to get.

Good heavens, I give you bad blood as well! Why did you ever come
across me?

The present of the Princess caused me a smile,--a smile over
which I could shed tears. I shall write to her when I have lived
through a few more days; then I shall also send you my portrait,
with a motto, which might make you feel awkward after all. How
are you? Burn this letter: it is godless; but I too am godless.
Be you God's saint, for in you alone I still have faith. Yea!
yea! and once more yea!

Your

R. W.

January 15th, 1854

Something must be done in London; I will even go to America to
satisfy my future creditor; this too I offer, so that I may
finish my "Nibelungen."

145.

My dearest Franz,

I write once more to try whether 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 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?

How about the "Faust" symphony? I am writing the "Rhinegold" at
once in full score. I did not see my way to jotting down clearly
the introduction (the depth of the Rhine) as a sketch; so I hit
upon the full score. This is a slower way of proceeding, and my
head is still a little confused.

The Princess has done well; greet her and thank her warmly from
me. Who knows how it will turn out? I do not care to know.

This is a sign of life to which you must respond sympathetically.

Your

R. W.

Zurich, February 7th, 1854

147.

Dearest Richard,

It is a sad fate that we have to live apart from each other. I
can tell you nothing but that I think of you constantly and love
you from my heart of hearts.

Latterly my time has been painfully occupied by all manner of
business, visits, work, etc. I have written to nobody, as you may
well imagine, because you did not receive a letter from me.

Together with this I send you the score of my "Kunstler" chorus,
and between this and the autumn I intend to publish half-a-dozen
orchestral pieces, also in full score. By October the "Faust"
symphony will be finished, which also will be published soon
afterwards.

Let us leave these trifles alone and speak of your "Rhinegold."
Have you really finished it? That has been wonderfully quick work
indeed. You know how delighted I should be if you would let me
see the score. Send it to me as soon as you can do without it.

In the meantime I have not neglected your pecuniary affairs, and
hope that my intentions will not be frustrated. CANDIDLY answer
me two questions:--

1. Have you pressing debts, and what sum do you absolutely
require to meet them?

2. Can you manage to live this year on your present income?

There is a probability that Berlin may come off next autumn, and
in that case I shall let you know the little result of my effort
in good time. For the present DO NOT SPEAK ABOUT IT. Dorn was
here, and conducted the second performance of his "Nibelungen."
The work is to be given at Berlin in six weeks.

Brendel wrote several things to me about the "Lohengrin" affair
in Leipzig. In my opinion, nothing further can be done for the
moment, and you have every reason to be calm and SATISFIED.
Lohengrin's barque is drawn by a swan; the cackling of geese and
the barking of dogs are of no avail.

Berlioz is coming to Hanover at the end of March, and goes from
there to Dresden, where he will conduct a few concerts at the
theatre. Fischer wrote to me recently about an intended
performance of "Cellini" at Dresden. This is as yet a secret,
which I, for my part, should like to see made public very soon.
The opera is Berlioz's freshest and roundest work, and its
failure in Paris and London must be attributed to low villainy
and misapprehension. It would be a fine thing if Dresden were to
offer him a brilliant REVANCHE, such as he deserves.

Brendel will publish his book within a few days. When you have
read it, tell me your candid opinion. Raff also has finished a
stout volume on the "Wagner Question" (!). He refuses to show me
ANYTHING of it, although he has read parts to several other
persons. Fortunately you are no longer to yourself nor to me a
QUESTION....

[Here, Liszt illustrates with a 3 1/2 bar musical score example
where the words "Ath - mest Du nicht die hol den Duf - te--" are
sung.]

Live in your "Rhinegold," and think lovingly of

F. L.

WEYMAR, February 21st, 1854.

148.

DEAR FRANZ,

Many thanks for your "Kunstler." You had in me a somewhat adverse
judge of this composition--I mean, I was not in the mood for it.
I have got so unaccustomed to judging in an objective sense that
in everything I go entirely by inclination. I take up only what
attracts my sympathy, and enjoy it, without in the least
analysing that enjoyment in a critical manner. Imagine then the
contradictions which the very choice of the poem necessarily
roused within me. It is more or less a didactic poem. In it
speaks to us a philosopher who has finally returned to art, and
does so with the greatest possible emphasis of resolution;--in
brief Schiller to the life! Besides this, a chorus for a concert!
I have no longer any feeling for that kind of thing, and could
not produce it at any price. I should not know where to take my
inspiration. One other thing: my musical position towards verse
and metre has undergone an enormous change. I could not at any
price write a melody to Schiller's verses, which are entirely
intended for reading. These verses must be treated musically in a
certain arbitrary manner, and that arbitrary manner, as it does
not bring about a real flow of melody, leads us to harmonic
excesses and violent efforts to produce artificial wavelets in
the unmelodic fountain. I have experienced all this myself, and
in my present state of development have arrived at an entirely
different form of treatment. Consider, for instance, that the
ENTIRE instrumental introduction to the "Rhinegold" is based upon
the common chord of E flat. Imagine then how sensitive I am in
these matters and how startled I was when, on opening your
"Kunstler," I hit upon the exact contrary of my PRESENT system. I
do not deny that I shook my head while going on, and that
stupidly I observed in the first instance only the things which
startled me--I mean details, always details. At the same time,
there was something in these details which seemed to strike me in
spite of my unsympathetic mood. At the close I reflected and
arrived at the reasonable idea of letting the WHOLE pass by me in
full swing. In fact, I imbibed it in a manner with the most
fortunate results. I saw you suddenly at your desk, saw you,
heard you, and understood you. In this way I received another
proof of the experience that it is our own fault if we cannot
receive what is magnanimously offered. This your address to the
artists is a grand, beautiful, splendid trait of your own
artistic life. I was deeply moved by the force of your intention.
You give utterance to it, body and soul, at a time, in
circumstances, and before people who would be well advised in
trying to understand you. You have done well in drawing
Schiller's lines out of their literary existence and in
proclaiming them loudly and clearly to the world with trumpet
sound. You have, as I say, done well. How to do it was your own
affair. YOU knew HOW these lines should be proclaimed to the
world, for to none but you had occurred the necessity of that
proclamation. I at least know nobody who could do something of
this kind with such force. WHAT an artist intends to do shows to
him HOW he should do it, and by this HOW we recognize the WHAT.
What you intended to do here you could not have expressed
otherwise than by this tremendous display of eloquence, of
emotion, of overpowering strength. This is my criticism. I have
no other. But who will be able to sing this to your liking? Mercy
on me when I think of our tail-coated concert singers! During the
performance at Carlsruhe you had, probably from your own
inspiration, worked yourself into such a state of excitement,
that you thought you heard them sing as they should have sung. I
suspect, however, that the public heard correctly what was sung,
and therefore could of course not understand the matter at all.
Dear friend, you require singers such as I want for my Wotan,
etc. Consider this! I have become so abominably practical that
the moment of actual representation is always before my eyes, and
this is another source of my joyful despair.

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