Dear Richard,
I duly received both your letters, and was pleased about the good prospects mentioned in the first. But your last one almost brought my hopes down again. God grant that you get results now, when you may quietly count on a certain assured earning, otherwise I am greatly concerned about the livelihood of us both, especially in these present times. It is fine and good that your friend, on the strength of your new opera Lohengrin, has advanced you 300 fl. on which you believe you can live with your wife for a quarter of a year; but this can't be any reassurance to me, dear Richard—for it is very depressing that my husband is not able to provide for his wife out of his own means and must live only on the kindness or charity of his friends, who every now and then lend him 100-300 fl. on the strength of his receipts to come. Although—don't take this amiss—it is very doubtful whether you will ever be able to pay it back, since you never adapt yourself to the world as it really is but demand that the whole world adapt and form itself according to your ideas. If a man lives alone and depends upon his friends to support him, it is not nearly so conspicuous, in my opinion, as if they are supposed to take care of his wife along with him. You know, dear husband, what little claim, if any, I made on you for my wardrobe and that I am not at all the spoiled wife, fond of dress; but it comes to the point where one hardly dares to put on an untorn dress without being pointed out as a luxury-loving and extravagant woman, as happened in Dresden in spite of my simple clothing. I learned this to my great regret from a letter of Pusinelli. In such a case it is always very obvious and convenient for people to say, if the man has made a bad speculation and contracted debts so that he does not know which way to turn: "It's the fault of the wife; she has been lavish with the money!" See, dear Richard, this is too sensitive a point for a woman like me, who rather avoids everything for her husband's sake so that he may remain a man of honor in people's eyes. I am a woman of such petty views, which with the best will I can't argue away, so you must excuse me. So far I have received no money or letter from our friend Liszt; probably he hasn't got it; after all, he needs much himself, so I don't resent it. Also, you mustn't expect too much of him; I'm sorry for him. I can't be certain when I shall be able to come; at all events I hope it will be this month. The cholera is raging now in Dresden, and many deaths have occurred so far. Dr. Baumgarten also died of it. Natalie and Friedericke wrote me too not to go there just yet. The Wolframs won't let me leave either as things are now, so my arrival in your town may still be delayed for a week; certainly you will agree with this too. To everyone's astonishment here I made a remarkable recovery. Clärchen's everyday life offers much pleasure and amusement; she would never be content with the kind of life I have led: this she frankly admits; it would drive her crazy, she says, or into melancholia; they didn't change their daily routine on account of my presence here; this is reassuring to me considering the expense it would involve.
Only today I got to the point of finishing my letter to you; don't resent it. Next Sunday I plan certainly to leave here, although the cholera in Dresden is still steadily increasing. I read in the paper that eight to twelve deaths occur daily, which is enough to scare one to death; all the same, I feel pressed to arrange everything completely in order to leave my beautiful Dresden for good. I must honestly confess to you that this time I am parting from my home with a heavy heart. Shall I ever see it again? God knows! And then my poor parents! I can't even think of leaving them behind in their helplessness without shedding bitter tears. May God grant them an early and peaceful end and pardon my sin for wishing it. But one thing I must ask you to tell me truthfully: do you believe that Natalie will soon find a position there, if I bring her along? I should prefer to keep her for myself, for I know how it was in Paris, where I found her very useful as a helper. I am not willing to do everything alone, for if you go to Paris I shall again be quite alone among strange people. I find it very hard to feel at home among strangers. You are more fortunate than I in this respect—anything new appeals to you more; I believe that is why you are much loved and honored, but it is hardly possible that you will be more worshiped and idolized in Zürich than was the case in Dresden at the beginning. You know how to be very charming if you want to. Your comparison of the thoroughbred horse and the rider is very beautiful and exalted, but there could be many objections to it. First of all, you do me too much honor by putting me above the everyday philistines. It is true I once had some courage; but when the rider has been repeatedly thrown by his mettlesome horse, and without quite breaking his neck, but so painfully injured that his courage is gone, he is afraid to mount that unruly horse again and prefers to mount a less highly bred one which will reach its goal a bit later, but with more safety and without neck-breaking danger. The owner won't turn it over for slaughter (as you put it) because, after all, he loves it too much for that; but he won't feel any pity for it when they try to curb it to humdrum work and scanty fodder. What the thoroughbred horse hasn't learned by fine training in earliest youth, even coaxing will not teach it later. This I have often experienced, and that is why it's too bad that even the best thoroughbred horses lose much of their value.
I have still a favor to ask of you: Don't write to your friends in Dresden that you want to settle in Switzerland; it has a bad reputation now on account of the insurgents who have fled there by thousands, and people say that the unruly, idle revolutionaries will continue to be a nuisance there. Well, now I know that you are not a revolutionary; you wrote that to me, and I couldn't be the wife of such a man, but all the same they all are expecting the worst from you here. So, I should like to deprive those people of their triumph by telling them that you are still living near Paris and will get a commission for a new opera in October or November. It has already been announced in the Dresden Journal. Would God it were true! I read that the Grand Opera House is now entirely closed; this means a bad prospect. Write me whether the Swiss aren't afraid of being attacked by the Austrians and Germans; they want to recover the fugitives from them again, so one reads in the Leipzig Zeitung. If this is true, I hardly know where you could find a refuge except in England. France in particular, as a republican state, is behaving miserably. If in any case you are already very industrious and have freed your mind of several ideas which had been swarming there, I shall be surprised when I come to you. Have any students of advanced composition applied to you? I would wish it for you. In Dresden you sent them to Schumann. Mad. Ritter has expressed her regret that you didn't teach her son. If I had stayed in Dresden, I would have seen a great deal of the Ritter family: they often visited me and I them; she is a very honorable, refined woman in whom I could have much confidence. The three daughters are simple and good girls; the second son is the opposite of the one we know.
Tell me also in your next letter all that you want me to bring along in the way of music and other papers, of course not too much or it would become too heavy. I don't know whether one can go by train as far as Nürnberg. If I have to shut up Pepsel in a dog crate, I would prefer to travel in a hired carriage by way of Zwickau, etc.; they are said to ride easily and to be much cheaper than mail coaches. I would arrive two days later, which wouldn't matter, in order to make it a little easier for the poor animals. Papo's stand would have to be taken apart and brought along. The poor fellow couldn't stand being cooped up so long in his little box. This will make some trouble, but I am much too fond of them to entrust them to strange people. You really seem to have forgotten them entirely, since you no longer mention them in any of your letters. Don't start getting any furniture, and be sure not to get into debt. Later on we can get it together. I am not so eager to establish a little home for me, since it has no permanence; no sooner is it furnished than it is torn away again without mercy, and one must start from the beginning if one has any desire left, which I haven't, for one never prospers that way. You might write a few words to Wolfram sometime about your debt of 25 thaler—it is very embarrassing to me; they seem to need it badly, since business is at a standstill; also, Clärchen is wondering why you haven't mentioned it. Don't expect me to borrow from Avenarius; he himself has nothing, since Cäcilie is in far too great need of money to indulge in her vanity and strengthen her health. I was present when she received 70 thaler from her husband for her trip to a bathing resort. At that they complain and lament so much that one hardly dares to eat one's fill. I should rather be carried off by the cholera than live on the bread of charity where they always make you feel under obligation to them. A letter has just come from Natalie, announcing that the 100 thaler from Liszt has arrived. Now it is all the more certain that I shall leave here next Saturday. Letters are slow; they usually take four to five days, so you will have to address your next letter to Dresden. If you have any more commissions for people, let me know at once. . . . The beds and a few trifles will be shipped according to your wishes. Beautiful landscapes no longer impress me as they would under different circumstances; one becomes indifferent to all beauties of nature. Excuse my bad scribbling. . . . Farewell for today, dear man of my heart! I shall write again, telling the exact day of my departure. I would to God I could be really happy about it! The Wolframs send their warm regards. Adieu!
As ever
Your
Minna
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 79