Most honoured friend,
I do not know your present whereabouts, yet I cannot resist the urge to converse with you. We recently argued a good deal together on the subject of Lohengrin, and it is this work which continues to concern me now; I have gone back to it again with our discussion still fresh in my mind, and am now clear in my own mind what to think: when I looked at my poem again after a period of some time had elapsed, I did so, as far as was possible, as an impartial observer, and I would express its poetic message as follows: atonement for Elsa’s failing must necessarily involve her punishment, and rarely can a failing have been followed by a more logical and therefore more inevitable punishment than is expressed here in her separation from Lohengrin: neither chastisement nor death (immediately) can be her punishment, - any other form of punishment would be arbitrary and arouse indignation, only the punishment of separation - albeit the harshest of all penalties - appears as utterly inevitable, and it can never appear too harsh, precisely because it is the most just and most consequential. Elsa has forfeited Lohengrin, it is impossible for them to remain man and wife any longer, for the moment Elsa asks the forbidden question, their marriage is already void: right from the outset, from the time I first became familiar with the subject, separation, the idea of separation, struck me as being its most characteristic and uniquely distinguishing feature, and now that I have considered every other possible solution, I return with increasing certainty to this idea of their separation, - which, if it were to be left out, would require a total transformation of the subject and probably allow no more than its most superficial externals to be retained. The symbolic meaning of the tale I can best sum up as follows: contact between a metaphysical phenomenon and human nature, and the impossibility that such contact will last. The moral would be: the good Lord would do better to spare us His revelations since He is not permitted to annul the laws of nature: nature - in this case human nature - is bound to take her revenge and destroy the revelation. This seems to me to be the meaning of most of those wonderful legends which are not the work of priests. What happened to Semele in the case of Zeus? - Of course, we are bound to ask ourselves the question whether, on this basis, my poem is capable of being dramatically effective in a unified way, and this, I know, was what worried you most. I confess that I am in no doubt about the answer, however rash I might appear to be in leaving the obvious conclusion to the action to the audience’s imagination, as happens here with the departure of Lohengrin: yet here we must risk enacting the final moment of separation, and this must be made possible by our being perfectly clear in our minds what is the fate which ultimately befalls both the lovers once they are separated. On this point the doubt which you raised was of great help to me in forcing me to consider ways of making Lohengrin’s involvement in the tragic outcome clearer than had previously been the case.
I now believe that I have made it perfectly self-evident what Lohengrin’s great (and passive) role is in the course which fate adopts: - in the first scene in which he appears, I have altered nothing, - it would be wrong to detract from the splendid privilege which music enjoys of making up for what the poet hesitates to put into words: surprise at the sight of Elsa, and the unexpected and swiftly kindled flames of love. - Nor do I wish to make any changes to Lohengrin’s rejoinder when Elsa asks him for the second time whence he has come; his reply, following a stern reproof, was:
O let my arm, sweet love, enfold thee!
Unto my beating heart draw nigh,
By thine own light let me behold thee,
In whom the world for me doth lie!
Let me then tenderly caress thee,
Thy breath upon my cheek to feel!
Nearer and nearer let me press thee,
Till bliss complete shall o’er me steal!
Thy love’s to me sufficient treasure;
To pay for all that it has cost;
For who upon God’s earth can measure
A prouder lot than I have lost?
Kings at my feet a crown might lay me,
I should with scorn the gift disown.
But one thing can for all repay me,
Thy confidence, thy love alone etc.
Here, too, I am reluctant to be more explicit, and I expressly intend to use music here to complement the meaning of this passage, so that no one will be in any doubt as to what Lohengrin feels. It is precisely this which seems to me to be the great advantage to be gained from combining the expressive possibilities of the poem on the one hand with those of its musical composition on the other, namely that the characters who express themselves through these two means can reveal themselves with a certain fixed plasticity and wholeness which would inevitably be weakened by too much secondary motivation. (God knows whether I am expressing myself clearly!) - However, after I have had Lohengrin announce his lofty calling in a calm and solemn tone - instead of turning to Elsa with a bitter reproach, as he did in the earlier version, I now have him speak the following lines with the greatest possible emotion:
Oh Elsa! Think what thou hast done to me!
When at the first my glances turned on thee,
I felt love to my heart straightway had flown,
The Grail’s chaste service did my heart disown.
But having turned from God in love’s excess,
Atonement and remorse must I endure,
For ah! the shameful sin must I confess
Of deeming woman’s love divinely pure! -
Do you still think it necessary for him to mention the specific rule associated with the Grail which, although not expressly forbidding the Grail knights from committing such excesses, nevertheless discourages them from acting in this way? I think it should be sufficient for the audience to deduce from what Lohengrin says that the bonds of earthly love are, strictly speaking, unbecoming for a knight of the Grail. (I might add that I have not invented any part of this varying stipulation, - this is exactly how it is in Wolfram.) When Elsa now calls on Lohengrin to punish her for her failing, the latter replies:
No other sentence may suffice for thee!
My heart and thine equally pain has rent!
Apart, asunder ever doomed to be,
This is our sentence, this our punishment!
Elsa: Ah woe, no harsher sentence can there be!
But death alone remains when reft of thee!
Lohengrin: The Grail’s fair knight must live in godly fane,
Thy husband, ah! is prey to parting’s pain. -
But enough of this, my most honoured friend, otherwise I shall find myself retelling the whole story all over again. - If your conscience permits you to do so, give me and my work your blessing; I cannot tell you how happy and optimistic I feel on resuming work on the score: - this time my music shall please you, - I believe I have again learned a great deal. -
I hope you will devote a few lines to me so that I may discover where you are at present, and whether you are content or not. God knows why I always become so garrulous when I’m with you: you’ve already had to put up with a good deal of stupidity from me! When you tear open this letter, will you be shocked and think that I’ve also been singing it? But you can see I’ve spared you that! -
May I ask you to convey my kindest good wishes to your very dear wife?
I am, Sir, your respectful and most obedient servant,
Richard Wagner.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 75