Dearest Mutz,
I have just received your letter — in bed, in fact, where I think of staying all day tomorrow also. As it's so dark in my bedroom that I can neither write nor read in it by daylight, I am falling to at once this evening to answer you a little, since I have the lamp at my bedside and can see to my heart's content. Luise has had to construct me an impromptu desk and bring my writing materials; she speaks Italian and I French, which often leads to confusions, as a moment back. —
Yes — here I am, for the third week of it indoors; carried 14 days from chair to bed, and from bed to chair. The abscess luckily has done discharging, and the wound, which was exactly deep enough for one to place six four-groschen pieces in it, is on the high road now to healing, so that I feel no more pain from it worth mentioning. The doctor therefore allowed me to walk a little in the room a few days since, and as that answered and it was such lovely weather, the day before yesterday he even sent me in a gondola to the Piazetta, with permission to walk from there to my restaurant. The air and splendour of the day were a thorough treat to me, which made me somewhat overweening, and tempted me to do more walking than was good for me. The consequence was that my leg took to swelling very much, and has given me such increasing pain even with the smallest use of it, that I decided patiently to keep my bed until the leg is altogether sound again; which in this way is certain not to take much longer. — That's how it is with me, you see; not dangerous, but very bothersome and demanding patience. —
It has fared strangely with me in this lonely interval, when for almost 3 whole weeks I haven't seen a living soul except the maid and doctor. Prince Dolgoruki called on me just once, and once young Winterberger; but I confess, they each remained too long for me, and I was glad when they took themselves off. In truth I can dispense with all society, and above all I never need amusement; I need nothing but health and an untroubled frame of mind for work, because nothing but my work really uplifts and sustains me. — Yet I'm by no means becoming surly through my solitude; on the contrary, the doctor and maid have mostly been astonished at my cheerful humour if they tried to comfort me. Yes, yes, that's how it is, when one has his life behind him!
I foresaw Karl's remaining away longer than he told me; nevertheless, I believe he will come back to Venice: moreover, he has retained his lodging and left his things there; but to think of the queer fellow never writing me a word! I am greatly looking forward to your presents, only I'm sorry that the piano-mat should not be hoarded for the new establishment when we are together again; I only say that for its saving, though, and am looking forward to it much. My last supply of Paris snuff gave out entirely a month ago, which is a true disaster, as one can only get disgraceful Austrian here; but it's an incredible undertaking to get any through the post: one hardly catches sight of it at all. The nicest present I've already had, your photograph. The more I look at this portrait, the better I find it, so that I really don't remember having ever seen such a successful one. The eyes and their expression, in particular, are quite exceptionally speaking; you have something in them that becomes you very well, something tender, melancholy, not unrestful. No doubt that comes in part from your late sufferings, poor woman; but otherwise, unless the photographer has altered very much, you look considerably better than when I left you. Once more, many thanks for the portrait; I only wish I could shew you a similar one of myself, instead of the sickly physiognomies they have reflected from me hitherto. But what pleases me most, is the tone of your letter to-day; I see you are living again, have the present and future before you! O stay like that, turn your life to advantage, take inconveniences and hardships lightly! Then a great alleviation of your physical sufferings also will not be long delayed, and — the evening of your life may amply recompense you for its sultry noon. That is what I hope for myself too! —
Greet our acquaintances; your having so many callers is really quite unheard of. If only it distracts, and doesn't fatigue you! So soon as you remark the latter, be merciless and shut your eyes to all other regards. Your answer as to Julius made me laugh; if you are able to help yourself so pat, by all means I have no advice to give you. To be sure, it's the simplest plan to give such tramps short shrift: "Close the door!" that's best.
I can't say much more on the Lohengrin-Dresden project, only the Ney must have incredibly changed to her outward advantage if I'm to believe your description; in London she looked to me exactly like your poor brother's wife, only a great deal commoner in face. She is an excellent singer; but dramatic expression, true soul, she has not. I cannot possibly conceive her as Elsa; rather as Ortrud. But don't press this opera so in Dresden: in the first place, it will bring me absolutely nothing in there; in the second, it revolts me still to think that, where I intended to present it first, so exquisitely mindless a conductor as Krebs should have its getting up. Let us wait and see how things stand next year. Already you are putting my Dresden affairs in the best order, you know, and I begin to believe the thing can be adjusted soonest that way. It would be your masterpiece, and I gladly will follow your lead.
For the rest, I beg you to inform me precisely how long you expect your supply of money to last you, and when I ought to be holding some in readiness for you again. I told you I would make you a New Year's present of the one expected Berlin tantième; but a second performance has since been added to it, and the hoped-for little sum thus wins enough importance for me to wish to have the whole of this receipt at my disposal. With so many outstanding Zurich obligations now, I'm really growing a little anxious; for no less than everything is hanging fire: if Hanover still pays up, it would be a stroke of luck — as I could send that money straight to Zurich. Therefore the tantième comes in very handy for me to have something to live on myself, and unfortunately my living isn't cheap here, as you may well imagine. For instance, I'm looking with horror toward my doctor's bill now. That prince's body-physician fell ill himself, and I had to send for another; when they despatched me the chief visitors'-doctor in the place, who certainly has treated me very carefully and well, but as a wealthy foreigner. — I tell you all this, so as to keep no secrets from you; but don't let it disturb you: you know how things come and go; very possibly I shall have good tidings in a few days, and everything will stand differently again. So it's agreed that you shall deny yourself nothing — do you understand? As much as you frugal wife require, will always be at my command. Consider that about the Berlin tantième as nothing but a precaution on my side, to prevent my being suddenly left dry; but any day may make it needless. So write me exactly by when you'll want money again; in any case I had reckoned on sending you a fresh supply between New Year and Easter. —
And now about my diet. Each day that God creates, I eat my veal-cutlet with spinach; either before it some fish — or after it a little chicken or game. I haven't any high opinion of those horrible sea-lampreys; probably it needs Herweghian epicurism for that. — Every evening before going to sleep, a glass of lemon ice, which Pietro fetches me. —
Here comes Luise with the tea, to accompany which I have some cold chicken to-day. God only bless me with sound sleep, which hasn't been the case since I have lacked all movement. I must conclude, for my writing seat is so inconvenient that one arm and leg have gone to sleep already; let's hope I soon may follow their example, and fall asleep entirely. —
Good night! Soon renew me the pleasure of your writing a thoroughly good, informal letter like to-day's.
Adieu, good Mutz!
Il tuo caro sposo Ricciardo.
Source: Richard to Minna Wagner: Letters to His First Wife, trans. William Ashton Ellis, Vol. 2 (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1909), No. 154