My dear Minna,
You are tormenting yourself needlessly, - you can be certain of that! Your letter, admittedly, is too well-meant for me to dismiss it with this brief rejoinder, but - believe me - however much I endeavour to enlighten you, I shall not be able to achieve much more than simply by saying: you are tormenting yourself needlessly. Of all the incidents and explanations that date from that difficult time, you continue to cling to only a few of them, and ignore both the context in which they occurred and other events which were more extenuating and less unsettling, and, on the basis of your extremely deficient recollections of what happened, you continue to weave for yourself a veil through which, to your own mortification, you gaze dimly and erroneously at events which, in consequence, are always bound to appear to you in a hopeless light. I realized long ago that it would be impossible ever to make you see that relationship in its true light; I also admit that, at the time in question, there were such violent excesses on every side that even the most sober-minded among us began to vacillate in his position, and I, too, will not attempt to defend myself against the charge that I occasionally lost my head. It was precisely for that reason that an end had to be put to the whole affair, so that our rows could not go on endlessly repeating themselves. For your part, of course, my dear Minna, you can always find excuses for each of the mistakes which you committed, not only for having broken open that letter, which was bound to make you so unhappy, but also for the fact that, in spite of my well-founded pleas and entreaties, you paid that fatal visit which was bound to rob me of my refuge and make us both homeless for long years to come - who knows for how long? - But I know the intractable nature of women’s hearts: they are simply incapable of sober-mindedness in such matters. - For our more distant future, however, a more serious consequence was that it has never been possible for me, even by letter, to enlighten you as to the nature of that relationship; that it would be equally impossible for me to do so today is again clear to me from your letter. I felt as a result that, if ever we wished to see each other again and live together, we should have to come to some agreement between us on one basic and essential point: never to mention that relationship and those events in any way. Only by strictly observing this agreement would we find any possibility of living together in peace in the future: it was simply to make this possible, and certainly not to decide the rights and wrongs of the matter, that I had to insist upon this agreement. But the moment that you showed even the slightest sign of acting in disregard of this agreement, when we were living together again, I lost all control over myself, for I recognized that an understanding was impossible, and that everything hinged solely upon complete mutual discretion. You will scarcely wish to recall how often sentiment got the better of you and betrayed you into openly breaking our agreement. I was soon bound to realize that I was expecting too much of so violently suffering a woman’s heart, indeed, my only cause for complaint was that your own life was becoming embittered in consequence. On the other hand, I still hoped to be able to carry out my firm resolution and confront you with a display of tranquil calm and silence each time that you showed any inclination to act in disregard of our agreement. The fact that I was not always able to carry out this resolve and, indeed, was less and less able to do so in the end, this, I admit, is to be regretted. When I credited myself with the strength to do so, I reckoned upon being able to lead a quiet life with fewer cares and excitements. It is with a real sense of horror that I now look back on that ghastly period that we went through again in Paris, when care, worry, annoyance, toil, and sufferings of every description finally reduced me to a state of such misery and over-sensitivity that I am amazed that I survived it at all and that I did not once lose my self-command. Could there be anything worse, in addition to the countless vexations that I had daily to endure, than inopportune reminders of earlier events that you have perpetually misunderstood? I now regard your entire view of that relationship as utterly erroneous, and am conscious of the fact that everything was quite different, and infinitely calmer and more decorous than you imagine it to have been: the slightest scorn, the least abusiveness on your part - I was as racked by torment then as ever I was before - was bound to provoke my anger. The fact that you refuse to understand this, and that, each time my violence erupts, you choose only to vent your pent-up self-hatred, or else to see me burning with passion for another woman, this - you can well imagine! - can only make me more furious, so that at moments such as these I really wish I were dead, - for there seems no remedy against such misery, and confusion adds to confusion. It was for that reason that I resolved always to remain calm and silent in such cases: the fact that my fate in Paris was again so sad and contrary, and that, perpetually tormented and stung, I was unable to retain my self-command; and the fact that there were again such useless and dreadful scenes between us, - this it is that suggests the need for caution in the future. - The extent to which you continue to labour under the most erroneous illusion concerning this relationship is again clear to me from your letter. It has become an obsession with you that I desired to possess another woman and for that reason hated you and often treated you badly, since you stood between me and my goal. The fact that, following those appalling rumours which compromised the honour of an entire family and encouraged people to believe in God-knows-what criminal goings-on, I was able to regain and keep for ever the complete and devoted friendship of a man whom those rumours had dishonoured in the eyes of the whole world - not only this but the conduct that I was required to show in order to win back this man’s total trust as a friend, - this is something about which you have not had the least misgivings, since you do not deem it necessary to imagine what must have happened here and how well-founded this man’s opinion of me and my relationship to his wife must have been, in order for him calmly to accept me in his house and allow me to remain under his roof as a guest! And do you deem me capable of availing myself of his hospitality - a hospitality that is open to me at any time under these conditions and with these assurances - in order that, by availing myself of all the advantages of complete domestic trust, I might sue for the hand of this man’s wife? Tell me, Minna, is not this the very stuff of madness? Can you not infer from the relationship which I have formed with her husband - following these events - what must be the nature of my relationship with the woman herself? If ever passion entered into what was originally a tender and pure relationship - which, to my sad regret, I cannot deny - can you not infer from the way in which, following such violent onslaughts against his honour, this relationship finally took a turn whereby the husband, in spite of his having been so grievously affected, has now, to his own reassurance, found his rightful place as a third party, - can you not infer from this the channels into which this relationship has now been restored, - nay, can you blame me for feeling deeply and sincerely aggrieved to see you - as the fourth person involved - bent upon excluding yourself for ever from it? I cannot overcome your obstinate desire to remain excluded from this relationship (because you continue to see this relationship in a false light), and so I have abandoned every attempt to do so. However, your blindness will never persuade me, simply in order to pander to your prejudice, to abandon my close and intimate commerce with this family which - both husband and wife - is devoted to me in its unswerving friendship: to do so would be tantamount to an admission that there was any truth in your erroneous ideas. As a result, I am resolved once and for all that, if you are not prepared to change your views, you will at least not place any obstacle in the way of my seeing these people; by this I necessarily mean that you will refrain from remarking on these relations, and, indeed, from ever mentioning them: for your continual mistrust is an insulting humiliation which I cannot admit to without making myself party to that insult. - And so, for your own part: total silence! Total avoidance of the subject! Not because there is anything dubious or suspicious here, but because you cannot or will not accept it as it is.
Will you be able to carry out this undertaking, and stick to your resolve in future - for the sake of your own peace of mind?? - Although you will deny that you have not done so already, I know from the experiences of recent years that it will not be entirely possible for you to do so in future! Of course, I feel sorry for you on that account, and am angry with you only because you cause yourself such unnecessary distress in consequence! Since, on the other hand, I feel only too well what I owe you in return and what a deep-seated obligation requires me to provide for your peace of mind and your greatest possible comfort, and since not even the view of genuinely well-intentioned mutual friends can ever persuade me that the best solution, as far as your own peace of mind is concerned, lies in our living apart: nothing grieves me as much as the helplessness in which I find myself with regard to your future fate. Truly, Minna, I am fond of you; you do me the greatest possible wrong, especially when you abandon yourself to such erroneous ideas concerning me. I myself would gladly contribute to your reassurance, and not even now do I intend giving up my attempts to provide you with a carefree and contented old age at my side, which is something you so richly deserve: you ought to realize that I, too, desire only peace and quiet, and not any new possessions. But how can I make you see this? The experiences of our recent stay in Paris have shown me how little I can trust myself, however good and calm my resolutions, whenever the endless agitations of a tempestuous and often desperately worrying outward situation cause me to be torn apart by secret inner divisions. And yet, as long as I remain fully conscious of my best intentions always to treat you gently and kindly, I have no difficulty in imagining how the two of us will learn to get along quite famously in the course of time, and how we shall be able to enjoy a life of relative comfort; but only on condition that my position in life is completely assured, and that we can settle down for good in some pleasant spot where I am assured of some suitable occupation and where a means of adequate subsistence will be placed at my disposal once and for all. If I achieve this - and I am working towards this goal with every ounce of my strength (for I, too, need these things if I am to survive), I would be the most heartless of men if, after so many storms and tribulations, I did not offer to share this longed-for refuge with you, my poor and sorely tested wife: indeed, it is with the most heartfelt joy that I should then call out to you: come on, you old thing! Let’s finally make ourselves comfortable! - And indeed, I do not doubt but that - after so many painful experiences - good fortune, peace and contentment will then be ours. What satisfaction that will give me, what heartfelt pleasure to be able to offer you all this at last. My old spirits, my delight in domestic comforts would then return: if you grow crotchety again, and if your old whimsical ideas start to prey on your mind again, - why, I shall leave you in peace on your own, until you have got over it once more! -
This much may be regarded as settled! I may even be able to offer you something quite soon!
But now, my dear wife! - now you must help me to bear my misery! Take a dispassionate look at my present situation and you will see how, in addition to all the terrible cares and afflictions that have almost done for me, you are acting most unjustly in bringing down on both our heads yet further torments and useless agonies, as you have just been doing - however good your intentions. Consider how things stand with me! Not one of my attempts to find a fixed appointment has yet received the least attention: an ordinary Kapellmeister’s post would be the death of me. My older operas are everywhere to be heard: with my new works I encounter almost insuperable difficulties. In writing these new works I have moved far - far ahead of my time and of what our theatres are capable of achieving. Karlsruhe has already harmed my chances for Tristan: it is with malicious glee that my enemies are spreading the report, “that it is my best work, but unperformable”. I arrive in Vienna. Ander ill; it finally emerges that it will be difficult to count on him for the rest of this winter. This misfortune is again being used to broach the subject of the opera’s unperformable nature. The new tenor Morini, whose debut I am now awaiting, first has to relearn all his operas in German: if he is to be of any use to the repertoire, it will be difficult to release him for a new opera for 2 months in the middle of winter. I am having to accustom myself to the idea of waiting until the autumn of next year for the work to be performed. In the circumstances, even the administration is racked by uncertainty: I find it difficult to ask for a larger fee: but nor do I intend to give anything away. To put on new productions of Tannhäuser and Lohengrin here, and in that way gain attention for my accomplishments as a conductor (which would then have made it easier to raise the question of my being appointed general music director), was also impossible. So that there is nothing - nothing that I can do in Vienna at the moment. How do things fare elsewhere?
Not a soul asks after me. I am having to start all over again from the beginning. There is nowhere any demand for my art, for the age we live in is very unfavourable to artistic interests in general. I want to go to Berlin and see what sort of an impression I can make there in person. But what hopes do I have there? Very few. Nothing encouraging from Paris. The director of the Théâtre-Lyrique is an irresolute, faint-hearted man, for ever pursued by financial ruin. At the Opéra-Comique all the regulations are against Tannhäuser: Royer was allowed to perform the work only once. There is again talk of Perrin and a new theatre under him. Rienzi - in the distant future. For the moment everything is problematical. As a result of my departure from Paris all I could expect by way of help is exhausted. And so - my poor Mutzi - my outward position really is helpless and desperate. - And what do you think my inner self must be suffering? For years I have again been wrenched away from my works which alone sustained me in the past: everything that I might yet produce, if I still felt any inclination to do so, must now strike me as chimerical. How could I ever perform it, given the miserable state of our existing opera houses? Deep down inside me, I feel that if things continue like this, I shall be finished. I no longer have any hope or trust in anything. This makes me bitter: nor am I spared vexation upon vexation. I often say to myself: oh! if only I could disappear from the world! I also see in all seriousness that only if I can devote myself permanently to superintending a theatre can the ground be prepared for my future as an artist - assuming that I have any prospects at all in this direction. - For this, however, I need the very position which I am now striving to achieve but for which I still have absolutely no prospects. I cannot expect anything from Vienna for another year. Where shall I find the patience? Where shall I find the courage and inclination to lead a life in which I am perpetually thwarted? - Oh! I could go on like this for hours and still would not have exhausted all the reasons for a mood which I can truthfully call one of profound despair. It is true that my head is still above water; I have neglected nothing that might be of any use to me. I have already written to Seebach recently: my amnesty, my amnesty is far too important. Yesterday I also wrote to Pourtalès again. I want people at least to know how abandoned I am, so that when I die they cannot say that they did not know what was happening! -
But what can I now offer you, my poor wife, in such a sad situation and with such a sad consciousness? - In God’s name, do not add to my burden of care! - You may rest assured that I shall not lose sight of my concern for you: I hope to achieve something in Berlin which may serve to reassure you, too. I intend going there shortly. Whether I then go on to Paris will depend upon the news I receive. If Tristan (with Morini) were to come about this winter in Vienna, I would regard it as a stroke of great good fortune which might well have important repercussions for the future. But - everything is so vague and unsettled, and all one can do is struggle to get by from one day to the next. - You must admit - fair auspices indeed for a silver wedding! - Ah, my child! therein lies my sadness! I almost believe that we would do well to ignore this day on this occasion! Fate, after all, is dreadfully against us. But there is still some time to go before then: perhaps some good will come our way! If this be the case, we’ll try to celebrate on our own! I expect I shall not be far away from you at the time: - we’ll see! But - for heaven’s sake, do not add another imaginary worry to our existing cares! We have enough to put up with already! I can really add nothing to what I have already said! -
Well! Fare well as best you can for today! And - though fate should decree whatever it may think fit, I entreat you to say nothing, absolutely nothing about that other matter! It seems as though you will now have to remain for ever in doubt!
Once again, fare well - and be kind to your
Husband R.
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 270