step again; I know it would kill her.  Well then, for her sake I am resolved to go on.  “Tannhauser” and “Lohengrin” must go to the Jews.  But I am unable to wait and see how much more they might bring me in in certain patiently looked-for contingencies than now, when I am compelled to get rid of them at any price, and the sooner the better.  Tell me, dearest friend, how do matters stand at Berlin?  Did you merely rely upon making our condition plausible to Herr von Hulsen, or had you prepared other means of securing your honourable invitation to Berlin?  I am almost inclined to believe the latter, and to hope in consequence that you will soon be able to announce our triumph.  The want of Berlin for my operas involves the delay of the rest of the business, and I assure you that the spreading of my operas is entirely a matter of business to me.  This is the only real point; all the rest is, and remains, fictitious.  Let us not attempt to look upon the matter in any serious light except as regards money.  I should despise myself if I paid any attention to anything beyond this.  For me the song of the “world” was sung to an end long ago.

And do you know what has confirmed me in this sentiment, inspiring me with new pride?  It is your work about the “Flying Dutchman.”  In this series of articles I have once more clearly recognized myself, and have come to the conclusion that we have nothing in common with this world.  Who did ever understand me?  You, and no one else.  Who understands you?  I, and no one else.  Be sure of it.  You, for the first and only time, have disclosed to me the joy of being wholly understood.  My being has passed into yours; not a fibre, not the gentlest tremor of my heart, remains that you have not felt with me.  But I also see that this alone means being really understood, while all else is misunderstanding and barren error.  What do I want more after having experienced this?  What do you want of me after having experienced this with me?  Let the tear of a beloved woman mingle with this joy, and what else can we desire?  Do not let us desecrate our own selves.  Let us look upon the world through the medium of contempt alone.  It is worth nothing else; to found any hope on it would be deceiving our own hearts; it is bad, bad, thoroughly bad:  only the heart of a friend, the tears of a woman, can dispel its curse.  We do not respect the world.  Its honour, its glory, or by whatever name its shams may be called, are nothing to us.  It belongs to Alberich, to no one else.  Let it perish!  I have said enough; you now know my sentiment, which is not a momentary emotion, but as firm and solid as adamant.  That sentiment alone gives me strength to drag on the burden of life.  But I must henceforth cling to it inexorably.  I have a deadly hatred of all appearance, of all hope, for it is self-deception.  But I will work; you shall have my scores; they will belong to us, to no one else.  That is enough.  You have the “Rhinegold,” have you not?  I have got to the second act of the “Valkyrie”:  Wotan and Fricka.  I shall succeed, you will see.