August 10. I am writing you this second sheet many days later, — how many, I do not know : " Schon zahl' ich nicht die Tage mehr ! " Everything here is one murky monotony : cares and disagreeables in ever novel shape,* but ever the same. Completely joyless ; but not stormy : rather, slinking. On the contrary, calm, full resignation ; naught to — expect ; nothing — to hope ; scarce aught — to wish. Quite used to the caprices of my fate ; bending my back to my mission ; patient, even as regards the weather. And this weather has its lesson for me : it is, that one can alter nothing, must get accustomed to it. The same with all the moral constellations that surround us : there raging is of no avail, — only enduring ! — But now and then a light springs up, within. When all has withdrawn there from without, detect the germ of "Durch Mitleid wissend" (such an enigma to the average German of the 'eighties). — It is unnecessary to indicate the differences between this concept and the final story. — Tr. unsatisfied, the inner life grows light and warm. Surely that is the Tristanesque Night: " Barg im Busen uns sich die Sonne, leuchten lachend Sterne der Wonne ! " All that I could tell you of my existence, appears to me so futile ; yet maybe that's the hardest thing of all to understand. Such a career as mine must ever cheat the onlooker: he sees me in acts and undertakings he deems to be my own, whereas at bottom they are quite alien to me : who marks the repugnance that often is filling my soul ? All that will be understood one day, but only when the sum is finished and the balance struck. Then folk must find that this Unusual was really but to be accomplished thus t and they'll learn — though without being able to apply the lesson to the next case. It has arrived at this : to others I seek to explain but little now ; as I have none save a sense of unmitigated suffering, I may as well suffer this too — for I know that it must be. Still : the day of clearing up will come — things are shaping that way — and the world will clap its eyes on many a thing it had not allowed itself to dream of. I say this without for a moment concealing from myself the impossibilities on which I'm marching : Germany lies open to me at last, and I'm feeling my first true shudder ; for I haven't an idea as yet, where Tristan's to be born. Ah yes, now the trouble's about to begin ! So the Paris Tannhäuser distracts me, gives time to meditate on Germany, precipitate nothing, and — what is of vast importance ! — perhaps the means to adopt the only attitude toward German reproductions of my newer works to enable me, with patience and tranquillity, to prepare there for the best. Should this succeed — how strangely would that sum have then worked out whose figures puzzle everybody now, since nobody can square them.* And yet — I admit it most modestly — there has been as good as no true calculation of my own in it. — But let us quit this Jacko'-lantern dance of worldly will and weening : we rank for little else therein but sorrow ! — I can tell you nothing more of Parzival to-day, however, for it's all in a very embryonic stage as yet and indescribable. I'll narrate you an old story instead, which made a great impression upon me the other day through its individuality and profound characteristique. In a volume of Ct. de la Villemarqud's " Les contes des anciens Bretons," where I found the oldest versions, from the Mabinogion, of the legends handled later by French poets — e.g. of Artus, Parcival, Tristan, and so on — I also lit on the tale of Erec and Enide, whereof I still " possess " a medieval German adaptation * in my whilom Dresden library — without having read it. The tale runs pretty much as follows : — Erec, after long warfare, has brought Enide home to wife ; his land he has secured against assaults of foes on every side ; such miracles of bravery has he wrought, that in his own and all men's eyes he can but rank as most unvanquishable hero ; so he finds no further cause for fighting, and lives in peaceful bliss for nothing but the love of his fair wife. This dismays his people and his friends ; they fear he will unman himself and lose his power, and blame the too great influence of the gentle dame. She herself begins to grow alarmed, and chides herself for being cause of what all deem this serious change in Erec's nature. Careworn she wakes one morning, looks sadly on her slumbering spouse, and down upon his naked breast, from which all bravery seems fled, fall two hot tears. Waking, he overhears her words, " Oh, must the blame be mine, that hero-strength has hied from him?" Marvelling— with the instant sensibility of noble natures — he fancies he must read her plaint to mean that she is longing now to be, or haply to become, a worthier hero's wife. This strangely subtle film of jealousy determines him forthwith : " God forbid that I should stay thy hand from joining with a worthier knight's above thy husband's corpse ! " — he cries. At once he bids saddle for himself and Enide, takes hurried leave of all, fares with her alone into the world, and orders her continually to ride before him, and whatever she may hear or see, never to turn round her face to him, and never breathe one word to him except he ask her. Far in the forest, three robbers come riding towards them : she cannot help but warn Erec. " Did I not command thee silence ? " he upbraids her, defeats the robbers, slays them, gives their horses bound together into Enid's charge, and bids her ride still farther in advance of him, driving the horses before her. So they fare on in silence. The same adventure is repeated, only with progressive increase of the danger, of Enide's alarm, Erec's wrath and victorious exploits. Enide hardly dares own to herself her fearful weariness from the long journey without rest or refreshment, for how much more terrible must Erec's exhaustion not be, — Erec, who has ceaselessly to undergo the most stupendous combats ? At last he calls a halt ; he bids her repose on a flower-strewn mead, a countryman brings food, wine, and so on. Erec goes aside while she revives herself, and merely wets his parched lips at a spring. He lets her fall asleep, and watches by her. Then they set forth once more, farther and still farther to the most unheard, most perilous adventures, and ever passed through as before. ""•'- Finally, after doing battle with a fearsome giant, Erec returns to Enid's resting-place exhausted unto death, and swoons to the ground, O her Lamentations, ! Then comes, a knight with lordly retinue — an enemy of Erec's ; the latter girds himself to yet another fight : he crashes down, as dead. Seized with burning love for Enid, the Graf bears her off to his castle, together with her husband's body. Enid is forced to appear in the banquet-hall ; the Graf wooes her hand ; beside herself for woe, she cries aloud : " O Erec, liv'dst thou yet, what man had dared to woo me ! " The door flies open : that piercing cry has woken Erec out of death. One glance reveals him all ; he slays the foe, clasps Enid to his bosom, begs her ne'er to doubt him in the days to come, e'en tho' he be not ever fighting, and with the overjoyed fares home ! — What do you ithink of it ? Are not these whole men ? So ineffably tender that nowadays we can't conceive of them at all ; the frightfulest expenditure of strength, from an excess of refinement of feeling ! — So sheet 2 is full, as well, — goodbye ! Kind regards to Wesendonck ; I shall write him soon. A thousand thanks and constant love ! R. W.
Richard Wagner
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, translated by Ellis, Letter 106b, No. 106