O Mutz, what an impatient woman you are! To answer a letter on the third day, when one has simply nothing of importance to relate, is none so rare a thing, and you often let me wait much longer! When will you grow a little calmer? — Besides — I delayed instinctively, since I had a horror of saying something to you about the L. that lay at my heart all the same. Indeed, if I had put off my letter another couple of days, no doubt it would have been still wiser; for I should then, perhaps, have wholly overcome it, and — not mentioned it at all. Now it has happened, don't take it too seriously, and attach no further weight to it; neither seek anything special behind it. Enough — you know that I prefer living completely retired, to having all sorts of tainted company; I am leading so plain and — I might even say — so nobly-still a life at present, that the thought of such a renewed potage à la L. really pains me. — However, that will all arrange itself; lay no too great weight, as said, on my last remarks.
Your news about the Devrient was a great shock to me, as you may well imagine! Great God, what dangers you women are exposed to!! That so-called "certain age" and "certain period" really is a terrible time for you. Surely your own sufferings, good Mutz, are to some extent connected with that period: in fact, it even is certain; but as you were already more inclined to an affection of the heart through repeated violent moral agitations, it has taken that turning with you, and perhaps spared you the other, to which the Devrient has fallen victim. Much as you have to suffer through that turning, you have a great consolation herein: even should you never quite get rid of them, your heart and nerve troubles may yet be assuaged and abated by a quiet life, agreeable impressions, avoidance of all great exertions and excitements, and good dietetics in general, to such a degree that you will certainly attain the age appointed you by Nature in a very tolerable condition, even of comfort, under circumstances, — whereas with that terrible turning a brief respite leads irrevocably on to agonising death. Oh, but it is awful! — And if you still should have to bear a rift about with you, as said, praise Heaven that you are spared the poor Devrient's fate!! — Sure enough, an injury she sustained in her last confinement, which also was the cause of her bearing no more children after (I know that from H. Müller, to whom she confided it), much predisposed her for that turning; the more do I thank God, that that is spared yourself! — Forgive my going so closely into the matter, but indeed it lies so close and is so serious. —
If she could be saved after all! I really have heard that the water-cure has had decided effects in such cases; perhaps it isn't too late yet. I'll enquire after Vaillant, then write at once; I think he's coming to Geneva soon again. I have unbounded confidence in him, and if the poor Devrient can be helped at all, it is by him. Do speak to her about it; but — lose no time. —
As regards yourself, I know you're under quite good treatment now, and moreover am convinced that morally good influences, i.e. composure and removal of excitants, are the principal point in your cure; let us hope we shall always succeed in procuring and preserving you those remedies! —
For the rest, I too am having heartily bad weather now. That at least was different in Italy, and to give you an idea of the Italian climate, so decried to you, I may tell you that if at Venice it ever was dull and rainy, it lasted but one day, never longer, and clear sky with bright sunshine so predominated that I retain almost nothing of rain etc. in my memory. No, the climate is another thing there, than this side of the Alps! But what I lacked, to my greatest detriment, were the long walks, hill promenades, green sward and air of higher regions. And doubtless that is what I've somewhat suffered from of late; with the present true Föhn weather here I feel quite miserable, so that it was only with pains and trouble I could piece a couple of bars together yesterday. But I need to be light and bright of heart now, if I want to work well; and no doubt that has its very natural, human grounds. By next November, when I shall have quite finished my Tristan also, it will be six years since I began composing again. In those 6 years, accordingly, I shall have written four, we'll call them four big operas, a single one of which would suffice in its fulness, depth and novelty, to be the labour of 6 years; compared with these works, in respect of wealth and interestingness of detail, my earlier operas are mere rough sketches, as a single glance at the score will shew any musician at once. All this I have drawn from my inmost being, without the smallest outward stimulus or support from my sphere of art, under the oppressive feeling of inability to see any of it represented, forever thrown back on myself and my innermost fount. Who hears these works one day, will be astounded when one tells him that these 4 were written in 6 years, — I know it! — But — I also feel — tired, very tired; and I need a course of coaxing, strengthening, to lure the tones I wish for from the greatly run-down inner strings. Solitude does me good at present; but merely because I know that the society at my disposal can offer me no true refreshment. Now God grant that when I quit my solitude again, harmonious company, invigoration and refreshment may also be my lot. — If you will only grow calm, gentle and — well, yourself you'll do the greatest share toward that; so tend yourself: 'twill strengthen both of us! Farewell, good Mutz, and ever be good to
Thy also good husband R.
Source: Richard to Minna Wagner: Letters to His First Wife, trans. William Ashton Ellis, Vol. 2 (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1909), No. 168