. . . Though many years have passed, my dear, best brother, since I have written to you, you must still believe that I have never ceased and will never cease to cling to you with all my heart, with unfailing eagerness. I lead here a somewhat prosaic and very quiet life, mostly among people whose ideals and ways of life are different from what I have been used to. But I should be ungrateful if I did not respond to the friendly attitude with which we are surrounded; and if I did not try to adjust myself to those to whom I owe much, and who are well inclined toward my husband and so also toward me. But at the same time I am often inwardly disconsolate, for among my associates I have almost no one who really shares our spirit and our ways of thought. So I am devoting my holiest, most beautiful hours to the thoughts of you, my splendid brother; I am reading the letters you wrote to Rosalie and mother in the old days, and I am reading the letters which I myself was happy enough to get from you, and then in my mind I go back again to those times when we were together in childhood as well as later on in Paris and Bellevue. How marvelous, too, for me, were the days when we could visit you in Dresden from Leipzig. Oh, what beautiful times those were! I could even despair at the thought that you are now so far away from us; for a journey to Zurich requires much planning. I must give my husband the credit for having urged me each year to visit you in Zurich, but I frankly confess that I was deterred by the expense, for it seemed extravagant in our circumstances to spend so much for my personal pleasure; it was not only this, but also the thought of being away from the children, since I was never able to leave them in good hands, for they are still tiny and helpless, and having once come to you I would hate to go away so soon again. . . . But this is certain, my best beloved brother: I will soon come to you if you want me. I must try to make it possible some time, for I should not like to die before seeing you once again and pressing you to my faithful, sisterly heart. In Leipzig, by association with your admirers, I kept on living mentally with you; but here such a privilege is cut off from me; I don't see anybody except people who neither know nor understand you well. . . . How will it be with Lohengrin? Is that also soon to be performed in Berlin? Who is to sing, and especially to act, the part of Lohengrin, I don't know; for although Formes has a good tenor voice, he is, after all, a little runt of a fellow, a poor actor, and without even a spark of spiritual understanding, so that his Tannhäuser is really offensive to me. I now hear and see very little of the theater, although it gives me the greatest pleasure.
Unfortunately, I don't see any more of Albert and his family. I waited every day for a visit from Albert last fall, when I knew that the Wagners were back from their traveling, but neither he nor anyone of his family turned up. Then I learned through my sister-in-law, Louis's wife, that Johanna had been talking to her in the most disgraceful way, accusing me of a lot of things about which I know nothing whatever, even today. Presumably it had something to do with her intentions of marrying—I confessed to her, face to face, not behind her back, that I am not happy about it and can see no happiness in it for her. I told her this in no spirit of malice, but with hot tears of deepest sympathy; she herself was much moved by them. In a word, however the situation may be now, it is based on gross misunderstanding which could soon be corrected if I could see Albert. But I am so indignant at the vulgar way Johanna dared assail her father's sister that I'll have nothing to do with her and all the others and I'll not take the slightest step toward clearing things up. Albert is a good fellow, but he is so henpecked by the females that he himself is no more accountable for his actions; otherwise, I should have been doubly offended that he can permit such vulgar babble; it is this that makes my husband so angry about Albert. When I first moved here, I had looked forward to seeing Albert; he was, after all, a member of our family here in the strange city, and when he sometimes talked to me about my father I felt much attracted to him; but I soon realized that an intimate association with the Wagners was not possible here, since you couldn't ever visit them at any other time than four o'clock in the afternoon. But sometimes it became five or half past five o'clock, before one could make that formal visit, and no sooner were you there than all of them ran off to the theater and we had to leave too. At that time they were very spoiled people, but they too perhaps will at some time experience the dark side of life. I am convinced even now the Wagners are having their troubles, since Johanna's voice has lost much of its metallic power; indeed her most beautiful tones, in the low and middle range, have begun to fail in vigor and resonance, although she tries to make up for it by her fine acting and is still even today the most interesting personality on the Berlin stage.
. . . Don't take it amiss that I have bothered you with such a long letter—but I thought you would like to hear about us and, besides, it is such a delightful feeling to speak to my most beloved and dearest brother again. If you want to give me great happiness, use a leisurely hour to write a letter to me, tell me how you are doing and what your dear good wife does, about whom I have heard that she is unfortunately not well at all. I am very anxious to hear from you. Hans Bülow has been here once, but he didn't meet me and never came again. I simply don't care much about Bülow, but how I would have welcomed the chance of getting news of you, my dear one! So I bid you a very tender farewell, darling brother, remain good to me, for I shall never stop loving you.
Your faithful
Cäcilie
Heartiest greetings to your wife from me and Eduard.
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 167