I intend to move in tomorrow: I expect the grand piano today. So things will be all right once more, and once I am at work I hope soon to forget all the misery of my life. What else is left to me? My wife? Oh, my God! Must I not shudder at the fact that whatever is necessary and good for me has just the opposite effect on her and thus distresses her? I no longer look forward to anything pleasant, and who could say anything certain about whether we would ever enjoy a quiet, congenial companionship? I'm anxious about everything! for I can do nothing more in this world than work out a few good ideas which are still in my head: otherwise everything is meaningless, miserable, hopeless for me. Whether here or there—it's all the same! I tell you this so that you may know for sure what I don't want; what I do want and choose I cannot say exactly. To be left in peace, that's all! Life will be painful and cheerless for me to the grave. It could, of course, be made easier for me, but who would think of it? I am firmly convinced that, whereas I for once, and surely for the last time, express my grief and sadness honestly and openly, you probably believe that I want to say something nasty to you, to insult you—which is not even remotely in my mind! Rather I feel sorry for you, as I do for myself, and I know that you don't live a pleasant life either. It is only this silly nonsense that I hear from time to time about all this being my own fault, etc. I can't stand that any more, and recently I've given the Grand Duke a piece of my mind on the subject. The time will come when people will look back on a life like mine, will realize with shame how thoughtlessly I was exposed to continual unrest and insecurity, and what a miracle it is that I have created works like my present one under such conditions. But everyone spends his life thinking only of himself, and looking upon whatever unpleasant things have happened to him as the most important thing. That's why I wish only to remain unmolested: I am completely resigned and can do without everything if only I can work. Therefore I say this to you, good Minna: Think it over! There was a time last year, after you could not decide to rent a reasonable apartment somewhere with a room for me as I wished, and after you had again touched on the wretched old chapters which drive me to desperation—a time, then, when I said to myself: For God's sake, don't force anything again! Maybe she'd better live by herself after all, have her social life to which she is fully entitled, and at last lead a congenial life which I can only disturb if I want to persuade her, by force and against the will and encouragement of fate, to live with me again! In the final analysis it would be better if I could live by myself; as soon as I once live at a permanent place, I'll settle down well enough and get along. I've repeatedly discovered how little diversion and company I need; in general I can live all alone and feel no need at all for company; or if I do feel it I only have to mix with people once in order to be happy again when they are gone. How much needless arguing, disturbing each other, etc., would thus be avoided?
I must leave the decision entirely in your hands! I neither dare to say: Come! nor could I bring myself to say to you: Stay! This is completely up to you! But I invite you to think it over thoroughly! You are right: another visit would be the most miserable thing that could happen to us both. You must feel what your heart wants you to do: if you feel nothing which tells you that living with me seems preferable to getting along by yourself, then think it over! I can give you no guarantees other than those I've mentioned to you: I look for nothing more in this world than peace and a mood conducive to work; once that stops I shall die gladly and willingly, for life no longer offers me anything attractive whatever. If you feel, after the great hardships which have depressed you and your heart, that you can devote yourself completely to this my final purpose in life; if you feel that your one mission in life now is to make my life easier, as far as it is in your power, and to preserve it for this my one and only purpose, and if you feel that you can achieve your purpose in life only when you provide me with all possible quiet and cheerfulness for my work so that you can say to yourself that you too have taken part in my creations—then I say: Come! Everything else will take care of itself! But again: Think it over! If you feel this or that drawback and can't completely dismiss it, then hesitate—at least hesitate! Time can heal that too, if you keep quietly to yourself. But if you don't understand my present state of mind which is completely free, exalted, sad to be sure, but without any ulterior motives; if you think even now that you are reading hidden reproaches in these words which you would have to answer; if you cannot free yourself completely, breathe freely and affectionately, and judge everything between us to be fine and noble—then you have completely misunderstood this letter, and I believe it would then be better to let time have its way for a while. As I have said: It all depends on you!
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 247