From Paris Wagner went to Carlsruhe, whence he wrote to me the following letter. The allusion in the opening phrases of his letter is to my inability to stay for the third performance of “Tannhäuser.”
You never heard such a din. It was a pity indeed you were away. I would it had been possible to prevent it; however, it could not be otherwise. But we did very well, until one whistle more shrill than the rest screamed for fully a minute. It seemed an hour. Horrible! horrible!--and my work was submitted to such an audience! Had I but the strength--but no, my indignation is now nearly over; the joy of being on my native soil once again, a free man, has removed a load from me that really at moments felt insupportable. Aye, those who have kept me from my fatherland little know how dearly they punished me for my, perhaps, imprudence in those early Dresden days. The sight is again reproduced before my vision, but in my joy at being free to go--except in Saxony--where I choose, poor August’s earnest face appears before me; and he is still the political prisoner of a power that could crush him in a moment. It is unkingly. Those days have made me suffer so keenly in what I love the dearest and tenderest on earth, my art, that in my happiness at being once more home I could shut out forever that sad past. Now I may go forward with my work. I shall not rest contented until Saxony once again is free to me as to the birds of the air; but how my hopes are built upon the future, and I feel all the confidence of success. I am sick again in body just now, but I will be conqueror. Was ever work like mine created for no purpose? Is it miserable egoism, the stupidest vanity? It matters not what it is, but of this I feel positive; yes, as positive as that I live, and that is my “Tristan and Isolde,” with which I am now consumed, does not find its equal in the world’s library of music. Oh, how I yearn to hear it! I am feverish; I feel worn; perhaps that causes me to be agitated and anxious, but my “Tristan” has been finished now these three years and has not been heard. When I think of this I wonder whether it will be with this as with “Lohengrin,” which now is more than thirteen years old, and has been as dead to me. But the clouds seem breaking--are breaking. The grand duke is good. He shows himself desirous of befriending me; no doubt intends well, and has even proposed that I shall return to Paris to engage singers to perform “Tristan.” I am going to Vienna soon. There they are going to give me a surprise. It is supposed to be kept a secret from me, but a friend has informed me they are going to bring out “Lohengrin.” You will hear about it.