Ah, my dear sweet girl, my Minna, my angel, my own—What a terrible situation! Believe me, I am never going to be happy, I shall never have a single happy moment, until I can hold you fervently in my arms. See, I am looking for anything that will quiet my pain; I keep working—but it won't do, my strength always fails, my heart melts into a thousand tears, and sometimes I despair of living to see the next morning. For I always feel as if everything would fall to pieces within me suddenly, so that I could exist no longer. I still don't believe that everything will end as I last wrote you; some miracle is going to call me to you soon—it can't be otherwise. Everywhere, everywhere I miss you; even on the street, among the motley crowd, I miss you on my arm where you nested warmly and sweetly. See—everything around me is cold and heartless, I have no affection left even to give to a friend, for every fiber, every spark of love has been taken by you; all my love has gone to you only, you cruel one! I'm too unhappy; I can't control myself even in the company of those with whom I usually dine. I have nothing to say; I am dumb and introspective; and the unfortunate people, like Herr Schwabe, who think they can cheer me by teasing, succeed only in paining me. Opposite me as I sit at table, hangs a map of Germany, and I keep looking at it and just imagine—the map doesn't even reach to Königsberg. So tears often come to my eyes. You seem out of the world altogether, so that we can never meet again.
Tell me, my dear, what have you against Schwabe? You spoke of his envy. Tell me frankly, did he ever let you see that he is envious of me? I suppose you understand me: Did he ever show an equivocal attitude? Was he ever inclined to court you? I'm ready to believe anything. Why not this too? Who would have believed, during our last days in Magdeburg, that we would have to endure so long a separation? If I had realized this, I would at least have asked you for your picture; you would perhaps have left it with me if you hadn't already promised it to your friend. I made a last call on him before my departure; I wanted to make up for what, in your opinion, I had neglected to do in your apartment after you had gone. Your picture hung in his room; Minna, I have to confess to you: my impression from this was not of the sort to make me bid your friend a more friendly farewell. First, I realized that you had deceived me by repeatedly pretending something quite different about this picture; secondly, I became painfully aware how little I still meant to you in certain respects, since you let the picture of my fiancée hang in the room of your friend, although we had before agreed—when you had done the same thing for a short while—that this means a betrayal of me and that nothing could give me more pain. But now you have done the same thing again, you have given—consider this!—your picture to a third person, and, Minna, this was not kind of you. It was even worse than that, for you could still have taken it back when I strongly urged you, since at that time it was not yet in your friend's hands—but you failed to do it; you kept it a secret from me, made it even impossible for me to get it—and this, Minna, I can't forgive you, for you lowered me in my own esteem and showed me my own insignificance. I assure you, my dear, if you had wanted to punish me for anything, you might at least have chosen a less wounding method! This lucky man, though he is separated from you—has your picture after all, and with it the fairest token of your faith before his eyes, and before the eyes of others—I—am not so lucky. Well, it is your work and was your will. Let this be my last word on the subject. I would have spared you this, if in my present state my longing for a picture of you were not so great. So forgive me, and rest assured this is the last reproach you will hear from me.
The 6th of June: You may well imagine, my dear wife, what a simple and retired life I lead here; you know me and know too that since I have been in love with you I have cared little enough for noisy activity, even if it had come my way; and so I'll tell you my simple daily schedule, and you may know what I do hour by hour. As soon as I wake up early in the morning from my dreams of you, I write to you first of all; it is my morning prayer and you are my God whom I implore to hear me; then, strengthened, I tackle my work and usually keep at it until two o'clock. Then I go to my dinner, and after that I usually walk to the Friedrichstadt, where I meet Laube, Glasbrenner, and some others with whom I go on to Charlottenburg; there I usually see Cerf, drive back to town, and attend one of the theaters, from there to supper and at ten o'clock to bed. The only exception to this way of life is not to drive to Charlottenburg at all, but either to go back again to my room or pay a visit to Schwabe or some other indifferent person. I am always taciturn and sad. O my God, how I miss you! Be sure to write me, my angel Minna; whatever happens to you, your life is much more colorful, anyhow, than mine; tell me everything that happens to you and let me share it.
Last night something unpleasant turned up. A gentleman from Altenburg sat at our table, who hadn't been there for a long while; in the course of the conversation Dedel inquired whether he had known you and praised you quite a lot; the man answered: "Oh, yes, the Planer; some one went off with her, and in a hotel, once, in Meissen, I learned that she had arrived; when I went to my room in the night, I made a mistake and got into hers instead. There I had a highly interesting time; it lasted three quarters of an hour." Of course every one was taken aback, and it was my duty and my interest to ask for a more exact account, for I was concerned about you. "Fräulein Planer?" he said. "Well, it may be that I have the wrong name; yes, yes, of course, it was Mlle. Wünsch, or Christiany; excuse me, etc." I retorted that how he may have carried on with Mad. Christiany was the least of my worries; what I strongly requested of him was never again to try any name switching of this sort and about such matters. He did his best, then, to reassure me and to apologize; but you see, my dearest, what people are like. With no intention to harm you personally, but only out of indifference about one name or another, this man—had I not been present—would have helped you to a doubtful reputation. A girl or wife in the theater is really too much exposed, and I consider it my holiest duty to do everything to take you away from the theater as soon as possible. In no case would I permit you to come with me to Berlin as an actress; it is much better for me to have you, my good wife, for myself alone, and not for the theater gaper; that way you are much more sacred to me. O my Minna, my delight! With what rapture I think of the future, when I will be able to advise and help you—Who is to advise and help as things are now; this terrible, evil state of affairs! A death shudder seizes my whole body when I think: three months still! Do you know any way? Will no miracle happen? Minna, my Minna— Is there no comfort?
7th of June—If I wrote you books and volumes, I could never write enough about my love, my longing. O my sweet, delightful life, must I then be so far from you in order to tell you what powerful feelings gather in my breast, feelings for you alone! Minna, believe me, my Minna, would you have thought it possible that my love for you could still grow? Didn't I find everything, all my expectations for mankind, realized in you alone? Wasn't your dear, good heart the only one where, with all my troubles and joys, I found deep consolation? But now is not each day spent in pain and agony another bond which ties me to you anew and forever? My God, Minna, there is agony, a terrible agony in each day as it comes and goes; in order not to succumb to it I have but one protection—my love for you.
I see that we still have to find happiness, great happiness; and it is my aim and hope to secure that happiness, to return your love which I have so little deserved, and to deserve it. It is this alone that keeps me going when pain crushes my heart. Minna, why must this weary condition of living take our strength from us? Why must we be separated by such a miserable situation? If I knew you to be in danger, in serious distress, how I would rush to you, tear away and sweep aside all obstacles to save you, to free you with the power of my love! Oh, tell me, Minna, my adored wife, can I do nothing, can I make no sacrifice for you? O Minna, my blood and life, to leave everything for you—how splendid, how beautiful this seems to me! Oh, tell me that you must have me, that I am necessary to you; tell me this and I'll override all the barriers in the world and stand before you, even if you are still farther away from me than our cruel fate has hurled you. Tell me what you demand from me? O God, O God, perhaps you are happy without me? Demand my life, my soul, but not that I give you up to make you happy, for see, this is the only happiness I would begrudge you.—Forgive me, Minna, but I am out of my mind, and what is to become of me? Don't believe that I will calmly bear this separation; something must happen to end it soon or I shall finish it with a bold stroke! I feel in the mood to smash everything, respecting no traditions, no fetters; if you are not given to me—well, then, I will win you. Minna, would you sacrifice your life for me gladly as I would mine for you? It wouldn't be worth a pin to me any longer, if I had to lose you; anyway, my life has lost so much of its value for me—it is dear to me only if it can bring you happiness. Tell me. Will I really bring you happiness by giving myself forever to you? Oh, take me, with every drop of my blood, with every fiber of my heart, with every tear of woe and longing, the only comfort I have for my sorrows, take them all—and—be happy! O my Minna, my ardently loved, adored wife, my sweet, dear angel—Will you be happy?
The 8th of June—Yesterday I took a long walk for half the day, trying to benumb my excitement by bodily exhaustion; my nights are dreadful—you know that excited state, my Minna, which deprived us both of sleep at night: it was then on account of my opera, the restlessness, the dream visions, the terrible perspiring. Now all my nights are that way, and absorbed as I was by my opera at that time, now I am all the more absorbed in the thought of you and our separation! Yesterday I roamed through all of the suburbs of Berlin until I was exhausted—I was quite alone, it was a beautiful clear day; ah, Minna—as I wandered around so aimlessly, a certain holy inward calm came over me, a sweet hope filled my yearning; it was the conviction that one day we shall become very happy; it is my single thought now to make you happy, completely happy in your love for me—some light carriages drove past, in one a betrothed or married couple were seated. How I envied them! Dwelling on my hopes of settling in Berlin later, I thought: "Then you must drive around like this with your young wife; how fine that will look, how you will be envied! And so for the future—Minna shall have everything she wants, and when you bring happiness into our home, how splendidly we shall enjoy it after such a long struggle!" Minna, with fancies like these I gradually begin to cherish again the life which I had held as so little; the thought had often come to me that it would be very easy to throw it away. My dear wife, don't dismiss that as absurd; consider my position; to be yours, yours with every breath, to be never, nevermore separated from you, I forsook all my family ties, all relationships; in short, everything that had bound me before; I did it of my own will and gladly, for I believed I had so won the delight of not being separated any more from you, but of sharing with you my whole life. Who would have guessed that we would have to part at once and for a long time? How terribly alone I am here during this separation! Besides you I have nothing to cling to with ardent love. I am entirely alone—I am much too sensitive; I cling to you with too many thousand bonds to be able to stand my misfortune with calm and firmness. I am unable to look up a friend; I even avoid those I already know; I don't want to be diverted or disturbed by anything from the image of Minna; any other thought seems unholy and hateful to me. See, Minna, if the storms of life could seize and hurl me wherever they wished, nothing could bring me back into my former circumstances; nothing could take from me the hope of possessing you. But, my dear, this separation— How can I stand it? I wonder whether the pain is going to crush me entirely—whether— Minna, my Minna, will no miracle happen? Is no hope yet in sight? No comfort? I am beginning to doubt whether there will be anything for me to do here; the new opera company is to assemble very late; there may be little work for me until September, and it is a very great question whether I could produce my opera then. On the other hand, it would be an easy thing to get a contract from next year on—my angel, release me; call me soon to you or I shall go to pieces— Do you not want me?
The 9th of June: Tell me, my dear adored creature, am I not growing bothersome to you with my endless writing? I can't write to you of anything but my feelings, my pains and miseries, for I know nothing else. Even for you it may not be pleasant—now you may feel in your heart anxious and annoyed, and then the feeling that I am suffering too may be a consolation to you, but what a consolation! Minna, my dear wife, it is hard, very hard seeing you in that severe climate exposed to many discomforts; and if I knew that something might happen to you it would release me from my exile and you would be pleased to see how quickly I would be at your side. My only remaining thought is to secure your happiness—and yet if you should write to me now, "I am happy," I would be out of my mind, for any happiness that I didn't bring to you would become my greatest unhappiness. You would never believe, my sweet child, with what a true, heartfelt blessedness am I now thinking of our wedding—quite new sweet images of it are always going through my head. How we will hasten it, dear Minna, as soon as we are together. I see you now, looking sweet in simple white satin, with the small wreath in your hair—my fantasy pictures everything, even the smallest detail—ah, my dear child, when we rise from our bed in the morning for the first time we shall not need to be bashful; and then the sweet calm in our poor hearts, which have suffered and bled so much! We must live quite simply to begin with; we will find our first happiness merely by having each other quite, quite inseparably—then we may look forward with calm assurance to our new life, which will grow ever more beautiful and happy. For see, dear angel, I cherish the hope that I can only advance each year; I am not like many others who profit only by their youth and its gifts, and then, reaching a greater age, lose out and keep sinking lower; that is the time when I hope to rise, for my gifts and talents will never age. Therefore, don't despond; even if the start is not so alluring and pleasant, it will always, always improve, and the more the charms of youth fade, the more worthy will our outer life become. O my Minna, you can now venture life with me. I have again collected here many fine hopes for my future, and I am a good faithful fellow too, as God knows; no evil is in my soul, believe me; I am honest and true. You are the same, and now may God protect us!
The 10th of June. God knows, my splendid girl, whether I pass a single hour without a thousand thoughts of you! It is both joy and torment; for thinking of you is joy, and seeing you vividly before me but knowing you so far away is torment! Only one thought, as I said, still sustains me; it is that your happiness will be mine too! We must free ourselves of these grubby theater surroundings; as a married couple we must rather mingle with a bourgeois society; and see, my sweet child, I have a firm hope and belief that happiness will enter our home when we are married, for your calm and sure intelligence will make the most of what my talent and earnings bring in. So, listen! On leaving Königsberg, we must also take our farewell of the regular theater world; you must leave the stage for good. You know, I hope to be employed in Berlin again for 1,000 thaler; to be able to count on 1,000 thaler here is certainly . . . as having perhaps 1,500 thalers . . . in Magdeburg. Further, my sweet child, we should not forget the advantage for my compositions which a Berlin appointment offers: I can give the first performances of my operas, etc., right here in Berlin, and if they are successful their fortune is assured for the whole of Germany; and so I have every right to expect that my standing will become very profitable. So it will be our greatest triumph, Minna, if after our marriage we reach a secure, happy, and honorable position— Then even our relatives will approve. Oh, those relatives— Why should we care about them? Tell me, don't you also long to get away from these disturbing and doubtful theater affairs? O Minna, if I could only make you really happy! See, it's my only desire, my only thought, and to accomplish it is the entire goal of my life. See, it may happen that my greatest wish, to come to you right now, will be fulfilled; but one thing is quite certain: Cerf is about to give my opera.
The 11th of June. Minna, dear Minna, why do I have no letter from you? See, I'm already filling the last empty space on this sheet and there is no letter yet to be answered. This alarms me. Minna, if you should meet with an accident and if I weren't near you—this would be terrible— O my angel, things are so bad now, how much more wonderful will the future be? Minna, I picture it to myself in such fair colors—when we live in Berlin and I make a whole lot of money with an opera, I'll get a horse and a two-wheeled carriage, a gig it's called, and I'll drive you around in it every day; it is not so expensive—this I'm sure about. Oh, see, it's my only amusement to build castles in our future, and the bright colors must make up for a drab present. I have a real prospect now of paying my debts regularly, without taking too much from our marriage fund; if Heaven wills that I can't come to you earlier, I would start my position here on the first of July, but only for the two months of July and August; Cerf ought to give me a decent fee for my opera, and so I think I shall be able to pay Gottschalk's as well as some other debts; but they must wait; it can't be helped; and if by chance they should write to you, make this clear to them; I on my part am doing the same. I see the time coming when gradually our ill luck will take a turn for the better; but I won't take the slightest notice of my relatives. What would you say if I should settle in Leipzig again? You may be sure that no misfortune could bring me so low; only when we are very happy will I show them how we can put them to shame. Our happiness and prosperity are going to be the best triumph over our enemies. Isn't this so, my dear wife?
The 12th of June—Dear Minna, see, now the whole sheet is filled up and I have no letter from you yet, and nothing to answer, and the worst part of it is, I believe there will be no more mail today, but only tomorrow I will be able to get a letter— What is the matter? Don't you love me any longer? I just got up from my bed and actually awakened myself by stretching my arms and clasping them together—for I clearly imagined I could actually embrace you, so vividly did you walk through my soul and stand before my eyes. Tell me, my charming sweet angel, what will it all lead to? Did I ever think it possible that my love could still grow, become still more violent and ardent? Shall I not go mad when finally I can really hold you in my arms again? I can't imagine yet that excess of joy; it is still far enough off! O God, I was prepared for anything in the world but such a separation; suffering, need, cares, sorrow, and pain, these were familiar enough. I knew them and didn't fear them, but a separation from you! Doesn't it seem as if an evil demon is haunting me, to inflict on me this additional torment after so much suffering? But perhaps this evil power has been for the best after all, for it has made me see that all the grief in the world is nothing compared to a separation from you; I know now that everything I once called suffering will be as nothing when we are united forever. Yes, my sweet wife, at your side I will know no more pain and suffering, for possession of you will atone for all; and when this last and greatest trouble is over, we shall know only good fortune and joy, for our trials will be ended, and none worse could exist to torment us. We shall be rewarded for overcoming everything so courageously and well; and see, this hope, this conviction is now so firmly and surely engraved in my heart that it fills me with a divine and inspiring faith: we must become very happy— O Minna, when I look ahead into this happy time my heart beats so proudly and joyously that I could also burst with grief at not being able to press you to this happy and confident heart. Perhaps you are hopeful too, and are preparing for the beginning of our happiness by calling me soon to you. Do this, dear child, and don't shrink from it because the circumstances there may not be very pleasant either. At least, it was so described to me yesterday by a man from Königsberg. But when I explained to him that I would go there for about eight months only, from about September to May, he said that in such a case I could well stand it, for around that season the theater company always stays in Königsberg and I had nothing to fear in winter about my salary, either. So if it must be like this, dear Minna, we will put up with Königsberg this winter, for as a young couple we can live for the first half-year wherever we want; we surely will be happy and we'll not care whether we are living in Königsberg or Paris if only we earn a decent living; and then in May, 1837, we'll go to Berlin; and when I have closed my contract here I will rent at once for Easter a nice apartment which Schwabe will fix up suitably, as we agreed. We'll surely get away from Königsberg. Arrange it, my dear, that I may soon count on coming to Königsberg; overcome all bashfulness and warn your director that you will leave in the autumn in case he doesn't engage me; so much is clear in any case: if I can't come to Königsberg we must go somewhere else, for we can remain separated no longer. Well—courage and steadfastness, we must conquer!
The 13th of June—Today a letter must come— O you dear, wicked girl, do you know what grief you cause me? I have no peace any longer, my heart beats so violently! Minna, my Minna, how does it go with you now? Perhaps you are quite unhappy and avoid writing about it? My good, dear sweetheart, my wife, my lovely wife, how long is this to last? God knows I can't stand it— O you have no idea, how I suffer—the conditions now are too terrible; there is not a single suffering, not one sorrow that doesn't oppress me and clutch convulsively at my breast. Minna, my God, I am too unhappy! God deliver me from this misery in which all my thinking and feeling languishes. My Minna, I can write no more now; God grant that I may still have a dear letter from you today, that I may have some comfort!
The 15th of June: Minna, I am in despair. I have been mistaking the date all along by one day— Today is the 15th already, and I have no letter from you. God, this is real anguish, and it will soon be fourteen days since I have had a letter from you. O God, Minna, if something has happened to you! How wrong you are not to write sooner; a thousand alarming thoughts are haunting me. Minna, I have heard that you won't return to Königsberg now, but will go on to Tilsit and then to Memel. Oh, this is fearful! It is terrible! Is all the misery of heaven to descend at last on the two of us? Minna, I am inconsolable that you have joined such a traveling company; Minna, Minna, let's rather pinch and adapt ourselves for the time being, but you must get away from the theater altogether; it is an ever burning reproach, burdening my conscience: my poor, good girl wandering around with a theater troupe. I am beside myself; if I don't get a letter from you today I don't know what I shall do.
The 16th of June. Minna, I'm beside myself; I have no letter yet from you. My senses are leaving me; I am quite out of my mind. Good God, if it is only negligence on your part this time, Heaven prevent you from doing it again, for I am more dead than alive. What, for heaven's sake, am I to do, if I get no letter today? All my thoughts are scattered. Minna, Minna, how terribly you are torturing me! The misgivings and anxieties that keep running through my poor head! God help me, I can't go on like this. I'll quickly read your last letter and will try to imagine that I just got it—so I'll deceive myself—
The 18th of June: No, Minna, this is more than I can stand!! I didn't leave my room from early in the morning yesterday until five o'clock in the evening, expecting a letter from you any minute. None came. I went to Schwabe. He tried to console me; the dusk came; we took a walk to the Tiergarten. How my feelings for you overwhelmed me; how the past, the present, and the future filled my heart! Minna, I could never describe to you the feelings that rule my whole being. It is impossible to find words depicting the state of my soul. Only let me hope that you will understand what I can't put into words. You must divine this, you must feel it. Even if the distance between us were still greater, your spirit, your heart must sense those holy pangs filling my whole existence— O my child, I am crying hard while I am writing this! Perhaps everything is a bad dream, my life is a bad dream, or are my beautiful dreams my real life? My mind is so distraught that I can't discern any longer between waking and dreaming. Oh, what a delightful dream I had this morning. Unfortunately, it woke me up. You lay, yes, you lay at my side; I felt the dear warmth of your body; your head rested on my arm; I kissed you so tenderly and warmly on the mouth, but quite softly, for I didn't want to wake you up, since you seemed to be sleeping. And yet, no, your good wonderful eyes had opened and looked upon me so sweetly and lovingly; for a long time you had felt my kiss, and reproached me for having slept and having done all this while sleeping. Then I pulled myself together, too, to open my eyes and prove to you how much awake I was! I looked around me and saw that everything was empty, desolate, dead, and deserted. Indeed I was awake and am still awake. It was a dream. I have no letter yet from you. I am awake and am reading a book in which every passage, every sentiment like the one tearing at my heart, makes me shed the hottest tears. There must be some change soon, that is certain, it must happen soon; dearest, if you would see clearly how immensely I am indebted to you, you might realize how yearning and pain, tormenting pain, are simultaneously crushing me. God in heaven is my witness that I think of nothing but making it up to you for having sent you a hundred miles away, poor child, only to leave you in pain and suffering! Or—is this not so? If not, it would be terrible—no, you could never forget me, not you, not you, for you are my guardian spirit, my angel, my God.
The 20th—Well, it is true. You have abandoned me. And you too, Minna! You too! Oh, this is hard, very hard—my pain has been strangling me all yesterday and all last night. Now it dissolves in a stream of hot, bitter tears, and only now I find words! You have abandoned me, Minna, abandoned; do you know what it means to me, a poor unhappy man, who has been left by everybody, who has devoted his entire life only to the possession of you, who had nothing but you, and now you desert him too!! Well, so it must be. I am most at fault, I love you too much, I have to go through this misery, too, in order to realize the ridiculousness of everything I have suffered so far. So you have forgotten me, and given me up—and, indeed, who am I that you should not be able to forget me? Could I ever be to you what you are to me? I know only this: if you could have seen me in these days, you wouldn't have left me. You would have felt the same compassion for me which has always been the main source of your love for me, for you have a kind heart; but the evil, evil hundred miles, they chill your sympathy, do they not? It was the 31st of May when you wrote me your last letter. Today it is the 20th of June, and that letter still is your last one. O God, what a wretched, miserable life! Nothing lives in me any longer except you; if the image of you should die then I too would live no longer. But that you should desert me just now, at the moment when our star of hope is rising, when we are on the verge of happiness! So it was only amusement, after all. Or was it serious? Tell me! Was it serious? Have we really been happy and unhappy together? O my God, how I suffer! Was that your last letter? Maybe I have been wrong—I hope to God that I have! O my Minna, forgive me—you have no idea what I suffer, this loneliness, this whole situation; maybe people less sensitive might bear it, trusting to attain their goal in this way. But, God knows, I can't, even if I had this certainty. My soul is mortally sick, and so cold, so icily cold is everything around me. These people who are not attached to me by any spark of affection, these circumstances, this life was never meant for me; I need a heart to which I can yield completely, with all my love, with all my sensitive soul, in the same unquestioning and exclusive way that you possess me. Therefore it happens, Minna, that I appear cold and repellent, gruff and unfriendly to anybody else. Only the one can possess me who offers a heart in exchange. And these people are rare, very rare. Minna, it was you who offered me this heart; and it was the more precious to me because it was seldom effusive, but held aloof from every first encounter with seeming coldness and reserve. Minna, I opened this heart; it accepted me warmly and lovingly, with all my weaknesses, faults, and peculiarities, and so now I am yours with all my heart and soul, forever and ever. If you abandon me, Minna, and turn coldly away, then you would be killing me; for if I were to go on living, you still would hold my heart and love forever in your possession, and never would they return into me. I would wander through life as a cold and heartless man and scornfully I would push that life from me. I am bound to you with numberless ties; if you cut them they will rebound, bleeding, and you will see a man fading away wretchedly, whom you have killed and bereaved of his best. My God, my God, no, you will also kill his body. For every vein of blood in me flows for you—each nerve, each sinew of my body belongs to you, Minna; we are of one blood; consider that our mutual blood flows mixed in our veins; consider also the murder which you would inflict on me—and then try to forget me, desert me!
The 21st. Just now I got a letter from you. God, how my heart beats. I haven't opened it yet!
I have read it! Is there anything that could bind our love more firmly? See, my angel, the sweet hope that had left me entirely yesterday has returned into my heart. For you stood before my eyes again, in all your dignity and purity, I saw you could not abandon me. Reading in the Prussian Law Codes, I found to my great joy that there is no obstacle to our marriage, since we have already lived more than a year in Prussia. Only today I was thinking about a letter which I intend to write to my mother before our wedding. It should take a conciliatory tone, not to ask her consent, but peacefully to open my heart to her about you. For I want peace, in case of her refusal, to sever all bonds, and indeed justly! Then your letter arrived. I can't yet describe its impression on me, I'm still too much moved in my heart; it was like an angel of light gliding down across my gloomy despair. O my wife, where are the words to express how I worship and adore you? It's a religious, holy sentiment to think of you. Each part of your being is a God to me to whom I am fervently praying. So much for today; let me read your letter another hundred times, then I'll continue—Minna my delightful wife, goodbye.
Your deeply touched
Richard
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 17