[...] Yesterday I finished the score of Tristan. I have deliberately reserved the pleasure of writing to you till the moment which closes this important period of my life.
Shall I try to arouse memories in you? I look back. In the autumn of 1853, you—a thoughtful, maidenly, noble, compassionate child—first brought your compelling loveliness into my life. Do you remember the Paris journey? It was a divine banquet of the dearest friendship, and you were the mistress of the feast. Do you imagine that this could have passed, leaving no trace on my poor life? When I returned from that journey I began to compose again after six years of utter musical barrenness. It is not quite six years since then. During this time I have been repeatedly hindered in carrying out my projects, and I can count three intervals of three months each in which I could not write a single note. Nevertheless, I have finished The Rhinegold, The Valkyrie, most of Siegfried, and now Tristan and Isolde. I cannot tell what the general verdict on these works may be; but they will certainly be reproached with being too full, too continuously charged with wealth of subject-matter, too persistent in the unvarying powerful expression of burning passion, of profound meanings. It will be clear at a glance that these scores are far richer, more delicately woven, more lavishly equipped than all my earlier scores put together. And these four works I began to create—from the moment of my return from our Paris journey!
Do you think I would assign no share in them to you? Indeed, some marvellous blessing must have lain upon me to enable me, in these years of grief, of self-denial, of manifold sufferings of all kinds, to create what one who knew nothing of my life would probably deem a harvest from the rich tilth of a harmonious existence.
You know that it is otherwise. But you also know what helped me. You know what flowers grew on the dry stony steeps of my life; few they were and sparse, but miracle-flowers blooming there alone, unsown, not found in the most luxuriant fairy-gardens of the tropics.
So think of our Paris journey and—may you bloom sweet and fair, dear flower of Heaven! [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 420