My health, fortunately, gives me no trouble, and I have no lack of patience.  The rest may come and will come.

Farewell and persevere.  Such is the wish of

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