When I feel myself oppressed and hindered by the world, always striving, rarely enjoying complete success, oft a prey to annoyances through failure, and wounded by the rough contact with the outer world, which, alas, so rarely responds to my inner wish, nothing remains to me but the enjoyment of nature. I throw myself weeping into her arms. She consoles me, and elevates me, whilst showing how imaginary are all those sufferings that trouble us. If we strive too high, Nature shows us that we belong to her, are her outgrowth, like the trees and plants, which, developing themselves from her, grow and warm themselves in the sun of heaven, enjoy the strengthening freshness, and do not fade or die till they have thrown out the seed which again produces germs and plants, so that the once created lives an eternity of youth.
When I feel how wholly I belong also to nature, then vanishes every selfish thought, and I long to shake every brother-man by the hand. How can I then help yearning for that mother from whose womb I came forth, and who grows weaker while I increase in strength? How do I smile at those societies which seek to discover why the loving ties of nature are so often bruised and torn asunder.
My darling mother, whatever dissonances may have sounded between us, how quickly and completely have they disappeared. It is like leaving the mist of the city to enter into the calm retreat of the wooded valley, where, throwing myself upon mossy earth, with eyes turned towards heaven, listening to the songsters of the air, with heart full, the tear unchecked starts forth, and I involuntarily stretch my hand towards you, exclaiming, “God protect thee, my darling mother; and when He takes thee to Himself, may it be done mildly and gently.” But death is not here: you live on through us; and a richer and more eventful life perhaps awaits you through us than yours ever could have been. Therefore, thank God who has so plentifully blessed you.
It was well for Wagner that his mind was occupied with the composition of “Lohengrin” during 1846-47, for by the summer of the latter year the pressure of circumstances had become so acute that notwithstanding his exceptional elasticity of spirits the mental worry must have resulted in a more distressing depression than that which we know did take hold of him. This exuberance of youthful frolic is an important characteristic of Wagner. It was his sheet anchor, a refuge from annoyances that would have incisively irritated or crushed another. True, he would burst into a passion at first,--there is no denying his passionate nature,--but it was of short duration and once over the boisterous merriment of a high-spirited school-boy succeeded. Though deeply wounded, as only finely strung sensitive natures can be, he was quick to recover, and whilst animadverting upon the denseness of those who slighted his art, he distorted the incident and treated it as worthy of affording fun only. Wagner identified himself with his art body and soul, his breath of life was art, his pulse throbbed for art, and to wound him was insulting art. His success was the triumph of art, and the sacrifices his friends made of mental energy, wealth, and time were regarded by him but as votive offerings to the altar of the divine art, honouring the donor. Then when his scores of “Rienzi,” the “Dutchman,” and “Tannhäuser” were returned unopened by managers, he turned with undiminished ardour upon “Lohengrin,” doubting his capacity to realize in tones his feelings, but with dauntless fortitude to write his “love-music” for the glory of art, conscious that its scenic interpretation was, for the present at least, a very improbable circumstance.