My dear Minna,
You are tormenting yourself to no purpose, I assure you! Your letter, indeed, is meant too seriously for me to dispose of it with so brief a rejoinder; yet — believe me — with the best endeavour to enlighten you, I shall be unable to do much more than amplify that You are tormenting yourself to no purpose! Among all the incidents and declarations of that troublous time you continually abide by some alone, forget their connection and whatever else was milder and more reassuring, and go on weaving from the most defective recollections a veil through which, to your self-torture, you look unclearly and erroneously upon events which thus are bound for ever to appear to you in a desperate light. I recognised long, long ago that it must ever stay impossible to provide you the true light on those relations; I also admit that such passionate excesses then took place on every side, that all self-possession tottered; neither will I defend myself against having lost my own head at times. It was just because of this, that an end had to be made then, to obviate renewal of the conflicts. To be sure, my good Minna, you find an excuse for all your past faults, alike for breaking open that letter which was to make you so unhappy, as also for your having paid that fatal call, against my reasoned and solemn entreaties, which was to deprive me of my Asyl and make both of us homeless for long — who knows for how long? — Still, I know the uncontrollable nature of a woman's heart: discretion in such things is beyond it. —
Now, the serious effect on our future has been that it never became possible for me really to enlighten you, even by letter thereafter, on the character of that relation; just as I perceive from your letter afresh that it will be impossible to-day once more. Consequently I felt that if we were to come together and live together again, one chief and fundamental bargain must be struck between us: never and in no way to refer to that relation or those events. In strict observance of that bargain lay the only possibility of our dwelling together in peace: simply to make that possible, by no means to have laid down which of us was in the right or wrong, I was compelled to insist on that bargain. So, after we had come together again, as soon as you shewed even a sign of infringing that bargain, I was beside myself, for I knew that an understanding was impossible and all depended on our greatest mutual discretion. You are unlikely to remember how often your feelings got the better of you, and betrayed you into openly breaking our bargain. I soon had to recognise that I had demanded too much of so acutely suffering a woman's heart, and could only deplore your embittering thereby your own life in particular. On the other hand I still hoped to be able to carry out my fixed resolve, namely, as often as you should shew an inclination to infringe our bargain, to meet you with the most unruffled calm and silence. That I was unable to carry out this resolution at all times, and in the long run less and less, is undoubtedly regrettable. When I credited myself with the strength for it, I certainly counted on a quiet, less troubled and agitating life on my side; but it is with positive dread I look back on that Parisian reign of terror we lived through a second time, when trouble, care, annoyance, exertions and sufferings of every kind ultimately brought me into such a wretched state of over-excitement, that I only wonder how I survived it at all without losing my self-command entirely. And could anything worse have been added to the numberless worries I had to experience every day, than these untimely reminiscences of earlier events eternally misunderstood by you? No matter how erroneous I deemed your whole idea of that relation, no matter how conscious I was that everything had really been quite different, infinitely more tranquil and seemly than your imagination depicted: the faintest taunt, the slightest allusion on your side — in the tortured condition I already was in then — was bound to lash me into a fury at last. Your refusing to understand this, your constantly insisting on seeing in those violent outbursts of mine only the explosion of a suppressed hatred of yourself, or ardent passion for another, — please reflect — could only make me still more furious; so that death at such moments must really seem preferable — there being no cure in sight for the calamity, confusion heaped upon confusion. It was for that very reason I had made up my mind always to meet you in such cases with silence and calm; and the mere fact of my fate in Paris having been so woful and perverse again that, everlastingly upon the rack, I could not keep my self-control, and again it came to such dreadful useless scenes, — it is just this that teaches me prudence for the future. —
How full of the most mistaken views of that relation you still remain, I see quite plainly from your letter once more. It has become a fixed idea with you, that I am longing to possess another woman, and hate and often have treated you unkindly because you stand in the way of my reaching my goal. That, after those atrocious rumours which compromised the honour of a whole family, and suggested God knows what criminal scenes; that after all this I won the full, devoted friendship of a husband who had been dishonoured by those rumours in the eyes of all the world; not only won, but lastingly ensured it to myself for ever — and how, by what behaviour I effected this, the grappling to me of that man's completest friendly confidence, — you take no count of that at all, do not think it advisable to ask yourself what must have occurred here, what well-founded opinion this husband must have formed of myself and my relations to his wife, to be able to receive me tranquilly into his house and let me hospitably rest beneath his roof! Can you consider me capable of taking advantage of a hospitality open to me at all times under such conditions and convictions, of profiting by the fullest domestic confidence to woo this husband's wife? Tell me, Minna, is it not a perfect maniac's dream that stands before you? From my relation cemented with her husband after those events can you draw no conclusions as to the character of my relations with that lady herself? If passion ever mingled in an originally delicate and pure relation — which, to my tristful regret, I cannot deny — can you not conclude from the fact of this relation's having at last so shaped itself, after such calumnious assaults, that he who had been so wounded by them found his reassuring place in it as third — cannot you conclude from this into what paths that relation was reconducted — nay, can you find fault with its profoundly grieving me to see you bent on excluding yourself therefrom — as fourth — for ever? I can't conquer your obstinate determination to remain entirely shut out (through your persistently regarding that relation in a false light), and have given up all attempt to do so. Only, your blindness will never induce me, merely to humour your hallucination, to break off my intimate communion with that family, who — husband as well as wife — are attached to me by unshakable friendship: it would simply amount to an admission that your false ideas were true. Consequently I have also made up my mind once for all, that — if you do not alter your opinion — at least you shall place no obstacles in the way of my intercourse with them; under which I necessarily include your refraining from all comment on, nay, any allusion to those relations; for your continued mistrust is an offensive insult, which I cannot permit without making myself a partner in that insult. — Wherefore, complete silence on your side, total ignoring! Not because it concerns anything doubtful, or anything suspicious, but because you either won't or cannot recognise it as it is.
Will you be able to do and keep to that in future — for your own peace of mind?? — In spite of the certainty of your disputing your not having already done so hitherto, I know from the experiences of these latter years that neither will it be completely possible to you in the future. Be sure, I only deplore and am angry with you for it because you give yourself such needless pain! As I am well aware of what I owe you on the other side, and that upon me rests the profound obligation to provide for your tranquillity, your utmost possible comfort; and as even the opinion of truly well-wishing mutual friends cannot persuade me to seek in a permanent separation the best appeasement for you: so nothing afflicts me so much as the nonplus in which I find myself regarding your future. Indeed, Minna, I'm fond of you; I am immensely sorry for you, chiefly because you surrender yourself to such false notions about me. I myself would fain contribute to your calming, and not even yet will I abandon the hope of preparing for you by my side that care-free bright old age you've earned so well: you ought to be convinced that all I ask is rest and peace, not any sort or kind of fresh possession. Only: how is that to be made possible to me? The experiences of our last Paris sojourn have shewn me how little I can depend on myself, on my best and calmest resolutions, so soon as to the hidden inner discord are added the intense excitements of a tempestuous outer situation often filled with cares to the despairing point. Fully conscious of my own best will ever to treat you tranquilly and kindly, no doubt I can imagine well enough how we two might rub along quite capitally in course of time, and comparatively enjoy our life quite comfortably; but only on condition that my livelihood were thoroughly ensured to me, that a definitive settlement in some pleasant spot, where I might find suitable occupation and be guaranteed a completely sufficient income, were placed at my disposal once for all. — Should I attain this — and I'm working for it with all my might (for my own thriving needs it also) — I should be the most heartless of men if, after so many storms and troubles, I didn't offer you, poor much-tried Wife, to share that longed-for haven; why, I should call to you with heartfelt joy: Come, dear old girl, let's make ourselves a little snug at last! — And surely, I've no doubt of it, contentment, peace and happiness — after so many sore experiences — would not then keep away. What satisfaction, what genuine pleasure to me, to be able at last to offer you that! My old good-humour, my love of home-comforts, would return to me: if you had a fit of the blues again, and the old fudge began its humming in your head, — I should simply let you quietly come round, until you thoroughly got rid of it at last! —
So — let that be a bargain; perhaps I soon shall be able to offer it you!
But for the present, my good Wife! — do help me bear this present misery! Take a good look at my position, and see how, with all the terrible cares and worries that are almost crushing me, you do very wrong to conjure up such bootless torments for yourself and me as — with however good intention — you now have done again. Consider how things stand with me! Not one of my endeavours for a fixed appointment has met the smallest notice yet: an ordinary Kapellmeister's post would be the death of me. My older operas have gone the round: with my new works I stumble on all but insuperable difficulties. With my new works I've sped far — far ahead of my age and what our theatres can execute. Carlsruhe has already been of harm to Tristan: my enemies spread gloatingly abroad, "My best score, in sooth, but unperformable." I come to Vienna: Ander ill: at last it turns out that the whole of this winter he can hardly be reckoned on. This fresh misfortune is seized, in turn, to bring the opera's unperformableness once more upon the carpet. The new tenor Morini, to whose debuts I'm looking forward, has first to learn up every opera afresh with the German text: if he's to be of any use to the repertory, it will be difficult to hand him over to a new opera for 2 months in the middle of winter; I have to accustom myself to the idea of not expecting the production before the autumn of next year. Under such circumstances, irresolution prevails even in the management: it comes hard to me to claim a big fee, though I also do not want to prejudice myself in any way. To get up Tannhäuser and Lohengrin anew, and thereby direct attention to my exploits as conductor (which might easily have led to an appointment as General Music-Director), has also proved impossible. So that I can do nothing — nothing for myself in Vienna, for the moment. And how does it stand elsewhere?
Not a creature asks for me; I absolutely have to begin from the beginning again. Nowhere is a need felt for my art, and the times in general are very unpropitious to artistic interests. I mean to go to Berlin and see what sort of a personal impression I can make there. But what to hope? Very little. Nothing encouraging from Paris. The director of the Théâtre lyrique an undecided, faint-hearted man, eternally pursued by money troubles. At the Opéra comique all the statutes against Tannhäuser: Roger was only allowed to bring off his performance once. There is talk of Perrin again, and a new theatre under him: Rienzi — distant future. Everything problematic for the moment; through my departure from Paris everything dried up that I might have expected in the way of succour.
That — poor Mutzi — is my outer situation, truly helpless and desperate. — And how do you imagine it stands with my inner? For years again torn from my works, which alone could have kept me on end: everything I might work at, had I still the least heart for it, bound to strike me as chimerical. How produce it, in this miserable condition of our opera-houses? I feel it deep within me — if things continue thus, I'm done for; I've hope or trust in nothing more. That makes me bitter; nor is chagrin upon chagrin spared me. Often I say to myself: Ah, couldst thou only vanish altogether from the world! — Myself I seriously see that if there still is any chance for my artistic future, the only way to give it a bottom would be for me to be able to concern myself permanently again with the charge of a theatre. For that, however, I need the very post for which I'm striving, but of which I still have not the faintest prospect; not for a year can I look for anything from Vienna. How preserve patience, then? How keep up pluck and heart for so eternally hampered a life? —
Ah! I could continue that tale by the hour, and yet not exhaust all the grounds of my, I might almost say, desperate mood. True, I still keep my head above water; I'm neglecting nothing that might be of use to me in any way. Not long ago I wrote to Seebach: the amnesty, the amnesty is of far too great weight. Yesterday I also wrote to Pourtalès again. I mean folk at least to know how forsaken I am, that if I should really go under, they mayn't say they knew nothing about it! —
Now what, poor Wife, can I offer you in such a doleful situation, with such a doleful conscience? — For God's sake do not make my heart still heavier! — Rest assured I don't lose sight of care for you: I hope to effect something in Berlin that may tend to your relief as well. That's where I intend going next. Whether to Paris again after that, must depend on my news. If Tristan should come off this winter in Vienna after all (with Morini), I should regard it as a great stroke of luck, which certainly might have weighty consequences. But — everything is so at sixes and sevens, and all one can do is just to try and eat one's way through from day to day. — Mighty fine auspices for a silver wedding! — Ah, my child, it's there that lies my heart-ache! I almost think we should do right to ignore that day this year completely; Fate is cruelly adverse, you see. However, there's still a little time twixt this and then: possibly something good may turn up! If that's the case, we'll try to celebrate it quietly after all. Presumably I shan't be far from you about that date: — we'll see. But — for Heaven's sake don't multiply real trouble with imaginary! Of a truth we've enough: I truly can say nothing else! —
So fare as well as you can for to-day; and — let Fate determine as it may — I implore you, keep silent, completely silent on all that! You seem doomed to continue in darkness about it for ever!
Once more, farewell — and be good to
Thy Husband R.
Source: Richard to Minna Wagner: Letters to His First Wife, trans. William Ashton Ellis, Vol. 2 (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1909), No. 217