Have you had any further news from Carlsruhe?  The newspapers continue to announce a performance of “Tristan” in September, and I do not relinquish the hope that at that time a favourable turn in your affairs will take place.  Anyhow, this summer must not pass without our seeing each other.

Once more, thanks for your greeting; the song is indescribably beautiful.

Most cordially your

F. L.

Weymar, February 17th, 1859.

From Vienna you will soon receive through my cousin a small collection of notes.

All that is kind to C. R.

284.

Venice, February 22nd, 1859.

I have just received your letter; as I am expecting R. and W., who may come in at any moment, I must defer answering you at length until tomorrow.  But I will not go to bed today without thanking you most sincerely for the great benefit you have conferred upon me by your letter.  I am often in a state of convulsive excitement, and must then look very ugly.  But that state has now disappeared entirely; you took it away today.

I shall say more about this tomorrow, and you will find me in a willing frame of mind for confessing my sins.

One word more.  If I have understood your short hint rightly, let me ask you, for Heaven’s sake, not to send me any money now.  I could not bear it.  Send me your “Ideals,” and, when it is ready, your “Dante;” those I am looking for longingly.

The boys have just come in; the well-brought-up K. thanks you a thousand times for your remembrance of him.

More tomorrow, God willing.

My blessings on you!

Your

R. W.

285.

Venice, February 23rd, 1859.

Dear Franz,

To my hurried lines of yesterday I add a more comprehensive letter today.  I have many things to tell you.

Lately I felt the urgent desire of sending you a word of comfort and sympathy.  I thought that you were in need of such.  For I had heard, to my horror, how great your annoyance must be, and B.’s account confirmed my impression that you were deeply annoyed and grieved by ingratitude, faithlessness, and even treachery.  Suddenly, however, I felt quite stupid, and all I intended to say to you appeared to me trivial and superfluous.  I could think of nothing better than to copy out for you a few fragments of my last work.  They are not the really important things, for those can be understood only in their larger context, and I am all the more obliged to you for your kind reception of my good intentions, which count for little in art, but for a great deal in friendship.