Dear and honoured Friend!
To-day, at last, I intend to write to the Wesendoncks again. But—I can only write to him. I love the lady too dearly, my heart is much too soft and full when I think of her, for it to be possible for me to address her in the form which now more than ever is imperatively imposed on communications from me to her. But I cannot write to her as my heart dictates without committing treason against her husband whom I love dearly and hold in esteem. What is to be done about it? I cannot keep all this locked away in my heart—one person at least must know how it is with me. Therefore I tell you—she is, and remains, my first and only love! I feel that now even more plainly. That love was the culminating point of my life; those anxious years of sweet unrest, when I lived under the growing magic of her nearness, her affection, held all the sweetness that my life has known. The least thing will recall it all and I am submerged in it again, utterly possessed by the marvellous melting mood which now, as then, catches my breath, leaves me power only to sigh. And were there no other occasion, there are dreams, which are always lovely and blessed to me when they bring her before me.—Now tell me, my friend, how can I speak with this lady as I must and ought to speak? Impossible!—Yes, I even feel I ought not to see her again. Alas! Even in Venice our meeting made me very unhappy, and not till the memory of it has utterly faded can this woman be quite the same to me as once she was. I feel it; to me she is for ever fair, and my love for her will never cool, and yet I dare not meet her again—not under this monstrous constraint which—well as I recognise the necessity for it—would yet inevitably be the death of our love. What can I do now? Am I to know that my dearest is under the delusion that I have become indifferent to her? Surely that is very hard! Or should you wake her from such a mad dream? Would that do any good? I know not!—And meanwhile life passes and is gone! Oh, misery! [...]
[...] Let me implore you—tell me something of our friend sometimes! [...]
[...] We love only once, whatever intoxications and flatteries life may parade before us. Yes, now at last I know, indeed, that I shall never cease to love her alone. You are capable of honouring the innocence of this protestation, and will pardon me for making you this confession. [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 557