Dear Mienel!
Morning. — Last night I had bad dreams, which I luckily can very well explain: my former eruption has now been reduced to the ancient catarrh, which will be easy to thoroughly get at, but meanwhile resides in my brain too, and tries to work itself out there during sleep. On the other side, the last few days I had often been thinking of the arrangement in respect of N., particularly of the allowance she is to have, which your good parents formerly received, and so I also thought a deal of them. Add to it your last letter, which informed me you were not taking Jacquot with you to the Seelisberg, but he was to stay behind alone. Out of all this, with the harassing aid of my still not fluidified rheum, there shaped themselves the following dreams, which unfortunately I haven't got pat in my memory, but the first whereof commenced pretty well thus: — You had gone away from me, and would have nothing more to do with me; I hunted for you (— as really happened once, long years ago! —) and found you rather poorly housed with your parents, which made me more and more distressed, the more you refused to come with me; till at last I called to you in horror, "But your parents are dead!" which ended in my shouting your name aloud and waking up. My shout alarmed someone above me, who tumbled about for a long time before he grew quiet again. — Then I had another dream: I was roaming with Pepsel, and seeking you again, for you had run away from me once more; it made Pepsel grow weaker and weaker; I looked at him steadily, and his eyes sank the more and more in, so that it gave me indescribable grief. At last I found your lonely dwelling; you had gone out, and the little room was empty. Inside, though, I heard Jacquot whistling and chattering vastly merrily; I went in, and was met by a strong draught: a window stood open, which I did my best to close, without fully succeeding; there were all kinds of slides and cross-sashes, so that it took me all my time till I woke up. You will easily recognise how this second dream in particular was occasioned by what you wrote me of your fears about Jacquot if you took him with you to the Seelisberg. —
There you have my dreams: of my waking I've little to tell you, except that we have had very fine weather since Sunday, that it has made me feel very well, my cure offers excellent promise, and I live in the best hopes of a radical restoration. You shall give me the cue for more through the letter I am expecting to-day, as there isn't much to answer for the present in your last.
Afternoon. — The hoped-for letter hasn't come; the recent scandalous confusion is sure to be to blame for it; you will have left Zurich before my letter reached there, and some time may still elapse before it is sent after you, so that you will have received my letter to Seelisberg, perhaps, before the other. It is doubly annoying to me, as I should so have liked to have news from you to-day! —
Now I shall hope for tomorrow, when I may get two letters at once perhaps, as the last time. — From your last, by the way, I gathered that you might be changing your mind as to N. again: I am awaiting your answer to my proposal about it, but be assured in any case that I abide by my opinion. It isn't a question of N.'s forgetting herself grossly for once, and then begging pardon — but of the whole relation, which cannot possibly remain as it is, for all of our sakes. I shall write to N. myself about it, and try to convince her in all kindness and tranquillity that she has no choice. — However, I shall write you at length on this, as said, when you have answered me. —
I'm looking forward much to a report from Seelisberg, where I hope you have arrived safe and sound now. — From here, apart from the already-mentioned, I really have nothing to relate; I go on calmly living for my health without disturbance. Yesterday I took my first hip-bath, which has rendered me extraordinarily good service: I take a little Carlsbad salt still, but nothing beyond; we will wait for R.'s water, all the same. — In the evening (— we dine at 5½ —) I usually take a long walk with Fips on Mont Salève, whence I return much invigorated; I always ascend, never go down to the valley — on account of the beautiful air. —
In no case shall I go to Aix; I must write to R. about it shortly.
I have to check Fips already from eating too much, especially small bones, of which there are a number here — owing to the frequency of cutlets; otherwise he does very well, and is exemplarily faithful. —
Now, adieu for to-day. I hope to dream somewhat more calmly to-night, and, most to be hoped of all, that my dreams bear no ill omen. So hold me dear! —
Source: Richard to Minna Wagner: Letters to His First Wife, trans. William Ashton Ellis, Vol. 1 (H. Grevel & Co., 1909), No. 106