My dear, worthy friend, how proud and happy was I not three years ago, before I had done anything out of keeping with the full consciousness of my antagonistic position towards our artistic publicity.  When at that time you, with your friendly anxiety, were intent upon getting “public recognition” for me and a wider field for my works, I used to smile and guard myself against every temptation.  But the demon took hold of me; in my terribly bare life, my inclination began to grow again towards some of the amenities of existence; I yielded to temptation, surrendered my scores, was surprised at their success, and—­hoped.  I now curse this hope.  I feel humiliated before myself, because I seek in vain release from this grief of self-reproach.

Hulsen has told X. that the whole thing in connection with me was done.  Fortunately I was able to comfort X. with the thought that he had not done it; but Hulsen is right:  the thing is “done for.”  What finally could enlighten me better as to the truth and genuineness of my successes than the fact that in the very places where they had been gained, and with every conceivable trouble, the loan of—­I must speak plainly—­1,000 thalers could not be raised amongst my “admirers?” This very trivial matter speaks volumes to me.

Pray, dearest Franz, do not talk to me of my fame, my honours, my position, or whatever the name may be.  I am positively certain that all my “successes” are based on bad, very bad, performances of my works, that they therefore rest on misunderstandings, and that my public reputation is not worth an empty nutshell.  Let us give up all diplomatic contrivances, this dealing with means which we despise for ends which, closely considered, can never be achieved, least of all by those means.  Let us leave alone this coterie, this connection with idiots who in a body have no notion of what we really aim at.  I ask you, What satisfaction, what pleasure, can we derive from the assistance of all these silly people, whatever their names may be?  I sometimes cannot understand your ironical enjoyment of life, which gets over your disgust at these people by making fun of them.  Away with all this stuff, this “glory,” this nonsense!  We live at a time when glory can bring neither joy nor honour.

Listen to me:  “Tannhauser” and “Lohengrin” I have thrown to the winds; I do not want to know any more of them.  When I gave them over to theatrical jobbery, I cast them out, I condemned them to the task of begging for me, of getting me money, nothing but money.  Even for that purpose I should not like to employ them if I were not compelled to do so.  After the insight which I have gained this summer, I should willingly submit to the penance of selling all my goods and chattels, and go, naked as I am, into the wide world, where—­I swear it to you—­no illusion should tempt me any more.  But my wife could not bear such a violent