Upon the whole, you were right in retiring to Weimar; as much solitude as possible, that alone can save us.

The Hartels sent me the bill of exchange yesterday; many thanks.  Cannot B. do the pianoforte arrangement?

He had only just begun the “Rhinegold,” when I took the score away from him to send it to you.  As soon as the copy at Dresden has been finished, he is to have it for the completion of the pianoforte arrangement; and after that, if you wish it, it is to be sent to you.  Shall we see each other this year, perhaps on your return from Hungary?  That would be something like it!  Perhaps at that time I should have recovered my voice, which here has disappeared entirely.

Farewell, dearest friend.  Patience—­that is all that remains to us.  Remember me to all at Altenburg.  Much luck to your mass!

Farewell, dear, dear Franz.

184.

Klindworth has just played your great sonata to me.

We passed the day alone together; he dined with me, and after dinner I made him play.  Dearest Franz, you were with me; the sonata is beautiful beyond anything, grand and sweet, deep and noble, sublime as you are yourself.  It moved me most deeply, and the London misery was forgotten all at once.  More I cannot say, not just after having heard it, but of what I say I am as full as man can be.  Once more, you were with me!  Ah, could you soon be with me wholly and bodily, then we might support life beautifully.

Klindworth astonished me by his playing; no lesser man could have ventured to play your work to me for the first time.  He is worthy of you.  Surely, surely, it was beautiful.

Good-night.  Many thanks for this pleasure vouchsafed to me at last.

Your

R. W.

London, April 5th, 8:30 evening.

185.

Dearest Richard,

I had nothing to tell you that was pleasant or important, and therefore did not write to you for a long time.  During these last weeks I have spun myself into my mass, and yesterday at last I got it done.  I do not know how it will sound, but may say that I have prayed it rather than composed it.  On my return from Hungary in September, I shall bring you the mass and my symphonic bubbles and troubles, half of which will by that time be in print.  If my scores should bore you, that will not prevent me from deriving sweetest enjoyment from your creations, and you must not refuse me the favour of singing the whole “Rhinegold” and “Valkyrie” to me.  In the meanwhile all other musical things appear to me “stupid stuff.”

How do you feel in London?

Troublesome though it may be, one must try to bear the inevitable and immutable; to take pleasure in it would be a lie.

The English edition of Philistinism is not a whit pleasanter than the German, and the chasm between the public and ourselves is equally wide everywhere.