[...] I promised to give you fuller details of my reasons for the decisive step which you see me taking now.
For the last six years the one thing which has supported me, comforted me and, above all, has given me strength to endure my life with Minna despite the tremendous differences of our characters and natures, has been the love of this young woman, who at first drew towards me slowly and hesitatingly, timidly, bashfully, but later with ever-increasing resolute trust. As there could never be any question of a union between us, our affection became coloured by that sadness, that melancholy, which keeps all that is common or base at a distance and seeks the source of joy solely in the well-being of its object. Since first we came to know each other, she has been tireless in her delicate care for me, and in the most courageous manner has got from her husband all that could serve to make my life easier. In view of his wife's candour the latter could not fail to grow increasingly jealous. Well, she had the greatness to keep her husband informed of the state of her heart. It is easy to imagine the sacrifices and conflicts this must have cost. [...] The most wonderful thing of all is that I actually had no inkling of the struggles she was undergoing for me. For his love of her, the husband was obliged to appear uniformly friendly and unconstrained with me. [...] This was the unexampled result of the glorious love of this purest and noblest of women; and this love, which throughout remained unexpressed between us, was bound at last to be revealed when a year ago I wrote the poem of my Tristan and gave it to her. Then, for the first time, her strength failed her and she told me she would die!
Think, dear sister, what this love must mean to me after a lifetime of troubles and sorrows, agitations and sacrifices such as mine!—Yet we recognised at once that our union was unthinkable; we renounced every selfish desire, we suffered, we endured, but—we loved each other!—
With shrewd feminine instinct my wife seemed to understand what was going on. She often showed jealousy and assumed a derisive or disparaging attitude, but, nevertheless, put up with our intercourse, which, indeed, never offended against morality, being content that each should know the other near. Accordingly I supposed that Minna was reasonable, and knew that she really had nothing to fear since no union between us could be contemplated, and that forbearance on her part was therefore the most honest and best course. Well, I was to learn that I was mistaken in this matter. Gossip began to come to my ears, and at last she forgot herself so far as to intercept a letter of mine—and open it. This letter, if only she had been in a state to understand it, might have given her full reassurance, for our resignation was its theme. But she noticed only the intimacies of expression and lost all balance. She came to me raging and thereby forced me to explain to her, calmly and clearly, how matters stood; that she had brought unhappiness on herself by opening such a letter; and that if she could not control herself we should have to part. On this point, on my part calmly, on hers passionately, we were at one. Still, next day I was sorry for her. I went to her and said, "Minna, you are very unwell." We planned that she should take a cure; she seemed to become calmer and the day of her departure for the cure drew near. She was set on speaking to Frau Wesendonck before going. I definitely forbade it. It was of prime importance to me that I should acquaint Minna gradually with the character of my relation to this lady in order to convince her that she need not fear for the continuance of our married life and ought to behave sensibly and nobly, renouncing foolish ideas of revenge and avoiding scenes. At length she solemnly promised me to do this. But she could not let things rest. In spite of all, and behind my back, she went to the Wesendoncks' and—probably without realising what she was doing—insulted the gentle lady most grossly. When she said to her, "If I were an ordinary woman I should go to your husband with this letter!" Frau Wesendonck, who was conscious of never having had a secret from her husband (a thing, of course, that a woman like Minna can never understand!), could not do otherwise than go straight to her husband to tell him about this scene and the cause of it. Thus the delicacy and purity of our relationship was roughly and basely assaulted and many changes were bound to follow. It took me a long time to explain to my friend that a nature like my wife's could never be made to understand the loftiness and disinterestedness of the relations which existed between us two, and I was deeply and earnestly reproached for having neglected to do my part while she, for hers, had always confided in her husband.—Anyone capable of realising what I have suffered since (this happened in the middle of April) will also understand my present feelings, forced as I am to recognise that my constant efforts to preserve our interrupted relations are utterly fruitless. For three months I have looked after Minna at her cure with the greatest care. Eventually, to pacify her, I broke off all intercourse with our neighbours for this period. My sole thought being for her health, I did everything possible to bring her to her senses and to a perception of what beseemed herself and her age. All in vain! She persevered in the most trivial remonstrances, declared herself insulted and on each occasion was barely pacified when the old fury broke out anew. A month ago Minna returned, and we had visitors—a decision had to be made. It was impossible to have the two women near each other any longer; for Frau Wesendonck could not forget that, as a reward for her great sacrifices and delicate care for me, she had to endure, on my part, through my wife, rude insult. Moreover people were talking. Enough! The scenes of torment were endless, and finally, out of regard for each, I had to abandon the beautiful refuge prepared for me with such tender love.
What I need now is rest and absolute seclusion, for I have had to suffer much.—Minna is incapable of understanding what an unhappy marriage ours has always been; she imagines everything in the past as different from what it was and if I found comfort, distraction and forgetfulness in my art, she manages to believe that I never needed them. Enough! I have come to a decision. I cannot endure this everlasting wrangling and suspicion any longer if I am to have courage to fulfil my life's task. Anyone who had observed me closely must have marvelled continually at my patience, my kindness, nay, my weakness, and if superficial critics condemn me now, I care not. But Minna never had a better opportunity to show herself worthy of the dignity of being my wife than when I needed all that is highest and dearest to support me. It lay in her hand to show whether she truly loved me. But she has no conception even of such true love and rage blinds her utterly!—
Nevertheless I make her illness her excuse—although even this illness might have taken on a different and milder character if she had been different, and gentler. The many hard strokes of fate which we encountered together and which my indwelling genius (which unfortunately I could not impart to her!) has carried me lightly through, dispose me to be considerate to her. I want to hurt her as little as possible for, after all, I am now and always very sorry for her! Only I feel incapable henceforward of enduring her company—nor can my company do her good. To her I shall always be incomprehensible and a cause of suspicion. Therefore—we must be apart! But in kindness and love! I do not wish her disgrace. I wish that she would agree in time that it is better for us to see each other infrequently. For the present I leave her the prospect that I shall return to her in Germany as soon as my amnesty is forthcoming, so that she is to keep all the furniture and effects. After all, I don't want to make any vows and will let all depend on my future state of mind. Please will you too represent that our present parting is to be temporary only. [...]
I am waiting here in Geneva for a while until I am able to go on to Italy where I intend to spend the winter, probably in Venice. Solitude and the cessation of that torturing intercourse have already refreshed me somewhat. It has been useless to think of work lately. As soon as the mood to continue the composition of Tristan returns to me I shall know myself saved. That, indeed, must be my refuge; of the world I want nothing but to be left at peace for the work which some day shall belong to the world. Therefore I judge myself gently as I do others! [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 362