Our concert at St. Gallen has not been without an echo at Munich, and Lachner, with whom I lived on friendly terms, proposed to me soon after my arrival to write for the parts of the two Symphonic Poems to St. Gallen, so as to have them played during my stay at the subscription concerts.  I thanked him politely for the distinction intended for me, and reserved to myself the permission of making use of it another time.  At the theatre I heard Clemenza DI Tito (the festival opera on the King’s birthday), JESSONDA, the Prophet, and Tannhauser; at the subscription concert the D minor symphony by “Lachner”, his fourth, if I am not mistaken.  Lohengrin is promised—­that is, they are talking about it; but amongst the present artists one would have to search for “Ortrud” with a lantern.  The Munich public is more or less neutral, more observing and listening than sympathetic.  The Court does not take the slightest interest in music, but “H.M.” the King spoke to me about Tannhauser as something that had pleased him.  “Dingelstedt” complains of the impossibility of giving importance to the drama, and gives two or three operas every week for the sake of the receipts.

“Kaulbach” and I have become sincere friends.  He is the right sort of fellow who will please you too, for the very reason that many people call him intolerable.  As lately as yesterday I roared to him: 

[Here, Liszt illustrates with a 2 1/2 bar musical score example with the words, “He — da!  He — da!  He — do!”]

His designs for Shakespeare’s “Tempest” (Ariel as Capellmeister in the air) are splendid.  He must paint your portrait for me later on.

Farewell, dearest Richard.  I must take care that we meet soon.

Your

F. L.

230.

Zurich, December 16th, 1856.

Several times, dearest friend, I made an attempt to write to you on serious, and to me important, matters, but I had many things to settle in my own mind first.  At last I feel sufficiently mature, and will tell you in plain words what is in my heart.  Your last visit, much disturbed as was our intercourse, has left a decisive impression on me, which is this:  your friendship is the most important and most significant event of my life.  If I can enjoy your conversation frequently and quietly, and in my own way, I shall have all that I desire, and the rest will be of subordinate value.  You cannot have a similar feeling, because your life is just the opposite of mine.  You love diversion, and live in it, and your desire of self-concentration is therefore temporary.  I, on the contrary, live in the most absolute solitude, and therefore want occasional diversion, which, however, in my meaning, is nothing but artistic stimulus.  That stimulus the musical world cannot give me; you alone can.  All that I lack, especially as a musician, owing to nature and insufficient education, my intercourse with you and no one else can alone give me.  Without this stimulus my limited musical capacity loses its fertility; I become discontented, laborious, heavy, and producing becomes torture to me.  I never had this feeling more vividly than since our last meeting.