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