Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt Volume II Part 36

Your

F. L.

WEYMAR, April 6th, 1859.

288.

LUCERNE, April 19th, 1859.

Tell me, dearest Franz, how would you feel if you were in my position? I have repeatedly asked you to send me your new works as they appear. The "Ideals" has appeared, but you are silent on the subject. Now I read the publisher's announcement of the appearance of "Dante." How would you feel if this happened to you? Do you still harbour your strange illusions about me? That surely is impossible.

The weather is bad; I am absolutely alone, and seldom in the right mood for work. So I drag on amidst mists and thoughts.

Let me hear, let me see.

Your

R. W.

289.

DEDICATION OF THE "DANTE" SYMPHONY.

As Virgil guided Dante, so have you guided me through the mysterious regions of life-tone imbued worlds. From the bottom of his heart calls to you:--

"Tu se lo mio maestro, el mio autore!"

and dedicates this work to you with invariably faithful love

Your

F. LISZT.

WEYMAR, Easter 1859.

290.

LUCERNE, May 8th, 1859.

I should prefer not to write to you today, dearest Franz, because I am not in the proper mood for it, but as I must not think of working, I make at least this attempt at some sort of activity, without knowing exactly what the result will be. If you suddenly were to enter my solitude,--that would be a chance of the possibility of a possibility. But you seem to have disposed of your summer,--Lowenberg and Leipzig, while the third L. (Lucerne) has been totally forgotten. Well, I stick to Lucerne, and, carefully considered, it is the only place in the world which is at present possible to me. You know, or might imagine, that I do not live a life in the proper sense of the word; the only thing that could help me--art, art to the verge of drowning and world- forgetfulness, of that I have still less than of life, and this state of things has lasted for a period which I soon shall count by decades. Excepting the servants, I see and speak to no one; just imagine how I must feel. My good people, I fear you leave me too much alone, and the meaning of "too late" will one day be brought home to you in connection with me. It is very well to say: "Get "Tristan" ready, and then we shall see." But how if I did not get "Tristan" ready because I could not get it ready? I feel as if I should break down pantingly in sight of the goal.

Once at least every day I look at my book with a right good will, but my head is waste, my heart empty, and I stare at the mists and the rain-clouds, which, ever since I have been here, have debarred me even from the chance of shaking up my stagnant blood by pleasant excursions. People say: "Go to work, then all will be right." Very well in its way, but I, poor devil, lack routine, and if ideas do not come to me of themselves, I cannot make them A pleasant state of things this! and what is worse, there is no chance of helping myself in any other way. All is shut and locked against me. Work alone is to help me, but who is to help me to the possibility of work? I have evidently too little of what you have too much.

I am full of enthusiasm for the German Confederacy of the Teutonic nations. For heaven's sake do not let the villain L.

Napoleon touch my dear German Confederacy! I should be too deeply grieved if any change were made. I am curious, however, what will become of my intended migration to Paris. It is surely most unpatriotic to look for a comfortable existence at the head- quarters of the enemy of the Teutonic nation. The good Teutons should really do something to save the most Teutonic of all Teutonic opera-composers this terrible trial. Moreover, in Paris I shall be pretty well cut off from all my German resources, and yet I shall be obliged to apply in a very high quarter in order to get permission for permanent settlement in Paris, for my Swiss settlement is coming to a close. Germany is evidently intent upon driving me forcibly to the enemy. Very well! There is a possibility of my going in the autumn for six months to America, where offers have been made to me which, considering the friendly sympathy of the German Confederacy, I cannot very well neglect.

This will be decided before long. What makes me hesitate is that the "Tristan" scheme at Carlsruhe would be crossed thereby in such a manner that I should have to give it up for the present, and should probably not resume it at any future time. The last act of this child of sorrow is now on the verge of the "to be or not to be;" a slight pressure of some spring of the vulgar fate, at whose mercy I am, might kill this child at the very moment of its birth. Everything with me depends now upon the turning of a hand; there may be a way and there may be a complete stoppage, for I, my Franz, am in a bad way.

I have heard nothing for a long time of any of my friends; they probably think that I am very happy in my dear Switzerland, in this splendid solitude, in the joy of composing, forgetful of all the world. I am not angry with them because they make themselves such illusions. If they only knew that I had to threaten violence in order to get out of you the "Dante" symphony dedicated to me, they might draw further conclusions from this fact. What do you say to that? I have, after all, arrived at "Dante", of which I did not wish to speak today, because I love it too much to involve it in my present mood. Let me tell you, however, that we had better keep the dedication, written in my copy, to ourselves.

I at least shall not mention it to a soul. Your words have positively made me blush, you may believe me. I cannot tell you too often how miserably weak I feel as a musician. I know, in the depth of my heart, that I am an absolute blunderer. You ought to watch me when I am at it; now thinking "it must do after all,"

then going to the piano to puzzle out some wretched rubbish, and giving it up again in a state of idiocy. Oh, how I feel then! how thoroughly persuaded of my musical wretchedness! And then come you, whose pores are running over as with streams, fountains, cataracts, and tell me such words as those which you have said to me. I find it difficult to think that this is not the purest irony, and I must recall your friends.h.i.+p in order to believe that you have not been cutting a joke at my expense after all. This is a peculiar story, dearest friend; believe me, I am not up to much. I really begin to think that Reissiger must have helped me with "Tannhauser" and "Lohengrin." With my new works you have most certainly helped me, and now that you leave me in the lurch, I can do nothing more.

About "Dante" only so much today that I was specially pleased to see how perfectly well I remembered it from your playing it to me. As I come to study it more closely I perceive that no feature of any importance had escaped me, even the smallest and finest details were perfectly familiar to me from that time. This at least is good evidence of my receptive faculties; but I believe that the credit is really due to the peculiar grandeur and quality of your work.

Generally speaking, if you wish to know, I am again in exactly the same condition as when I wrote the letter about you to M.

Concerning that letter I recently had a brand-new experience. K.

R. had not read it, when I found it accidentally amongst my papers at Venice, and gave it to him. After that he came to me, and told me that people who were near to you had told him in connection with this letter that I expressed myself in it in an evasive manner, and was evidently intent upon saying nothing definite about you. He himself had been made anxious by this, and now, having read it, was truly delighted at perceiving the ENORMOUS significance I had attributed to you. Astonished at the possibility of an ill-natured misunderstanding, I read the letter once more, and was compelled to chime in with K. R.'s impetuous declamations at the incredible dulness, superficiality, and triviality of people who could have misunderstood the meaning of this letter. I have taken a solemn oath not to publish ANOTHER WORD. What we are to each other we know and tell one another at intervals for the sake of encouragement and comfort. But what we are to the world I will be d--d if I--!

It is TOO incredible.

Good Lord! I cannot get out of my trivial mood in this letter, and therefore must not discuss anything n.o.ble, least of all the "Ideals." If you want to be sure of hearing something rational from me, come to me and play all your things to me, especially the Crusaders' chorus (splendid!!); then at least YOU will know once more accurately what is in me.

For the present I spend all the good humour I can dispose of on my wife. I flatter her and take care of her as if she were a bride in her honeymoon. My reward is that I see her thrive; her bad illness is visibly getting better. She is recovering, and will, I hope, become a little rational in her old age. Just after I had received your "Dante", I wrote to her that we had now got out of h.e.l.l; I hope Purgatory will agree with her, in which case we may perhaps, after all, enjoy a little Paradise. The whole thing is splendid. Remember me to the Prince of Lowenberg, or whatever his name may be, and tell him that if the German Confederacy does not recall me soon I shall go to Paris and betray the length and breadth of Germany.

G.o.d be with you. I hope you will pardon this absurd letter. Ever thine,

R. W.

291.

What a terrible storm is your letter, dearest Richard! How desperately it lashes and knocks down everything. What can be heard in the midst of this roaring thunder? Where shall I find, and what is the good of, words, words, words?

And yet my confidence in you is unshaken. Hamlet's dilemma does not apply to you, for YOU ARE and cannot help being. Even your mad injustice towards yourself in calling yourself a "miserable musician and blunderer" (!!) is a sign of your greatness. In the same sense Pascal says, "La vraie eloquence se moque de l'

eloquence." It is true that your greatness brings you little comfort and happiness, but where is happiness, in the narrow monotonous sense which is absurdly given to the word? Resignation and patience alone sustain us in this world. Let us bear our cross together in Christ--"the G.o.d whom one approaches without pride, before whom one bends the knee without despair." But I must not be betrayed into needless Franciscan sermons.

Candidly speaking, I do not think much of your American project, and fear that New York would appear even more uncanny to you than London. Nevertheless, write to me some particulars about the offer which has been made to you, without the slightest fear of alarming the German Confederacy. As I frequently said, Carlsruhe is, for the present, your best chance, and I am persuaded that the Grand Duke of Baden, who is very well inclined towards you, will not fail to give you practical proof of his kindness.

Devrient does not expect to give "Tristan" before December, on the birthday of the Grand d.u.c.h.ess. You need, therefore, be in no particular hurry to finish the work. In any case, I shall visit you before that at Lucerne, or wherever you like, and will play to you a lot of my stuff if, as you tell me, it amuses you. The n.o.blest reward of my work would be if it were to bring home to you the truth that you are and remain an IMMENSE MUSICIAN, and if by that means you were incited to renewed industry.

In spite of all the war troubles the meeting of musicians will take place at the beginning of June, as announced, and I have to take up my quarters at Leipzig for that purpose as early as next week. Do not laugh at me too much because I continue to take an interest in similar things; they are not without influence on your tentiemes, and from that point of view I may ask for your toleration. I hope the weather will soon be finer on the lake, and a milder spirit will illumine your soul.

Cordially your

F. LISZT.

WEYMAR, May 14th, 1859.

I told you at the time how deeply your letter to M. about the Symphonic Poems had rejoiced me. The twaddle which dulness, triviality, and spite have talked about it is not worth notice.

292.

LUCERNE, May 15th, 1859.