My dear good Richard!
Many thanks for your last letters!
At the bottom of your heart you are good, after all; I always knew it, it is only from your mind, in which so much beauty and splendor dwells, that also sometimes there comes much harm for those about you—all that shall now be forgiven and forgotten. You should now know that once I have forgiven, never a word about the past has escaped my lips; so shall it be now, but before that I had to unburden myself to you frankly. When you spoke of reunion and seeing each other again—which I no longer believed in seriously—you should have examined yourself so that I could be glad from the bottom of my heart, which I could not quite be in my letters to you, as you can still gather now. From now on I shall strive to kill every disagreeable thought of the past in my mind, and it will be revived only in the case of a renewed offense—against which may the heavens protect me for all eternity! Husband and wife should discuss everything frankly and honestly; they must confess good and bad to each other; they must advise and help one another; in short, there must be sincerity, otherwise no happiness and blessing will dwell in the home. One must have confidence in the other, more so than in strangers. God hears and sees everything, and he often punishes severely those who sow weeds among the wheat. One should not complain behind the back of the other, something that by all saints has never entered my mind. . . . You should at least know me as well as that when you remember that I always keep my word, and that never a word of reproach about it escaped my lips. . . . It all depends from what source the offense stems. But I ask you once again not to believe that I was stirred up by some one or other. I assure you that the whole incident has not allowed me a quiet moment: it has pursued me at night while awake and dreaming, so that I found myself constantly in a feverish state of mind that had a most destructive effect on me; and if I had not still had some strength left, it would be scarcely possible for me still to exist, wherefore I do not care at all for a life full of torment which I don't deserve. This, my good Richard, I have had to tell you frankly and honestly; I hesitated a long time to do so. As you will have seen from my letters, I could never be happy, even when you gave me hope for a reunion or a meeting, a hope which would have made me so happy under different circumstances. Added to this was what I learned just before my departure—not quite directly—about the horrible insult, those mean reproaches you had uttered about me. I put them with the rest and they grieved me very much. So, my child, it was only natural that I had to talk to you, not excitedly, but quietly, and before I could again put my whole future and life into your hands. As concerns the indirect offenses, they too shall be placed with the rest of the insults; in case there is no repetition, they shall be forgiven and if possible forgotten—
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 280