[...] All my past experiences are as nothing compared to a realisation, a discovery, which I made at the first orchestral rehearsal for my concert, for these will determine all my remaining career, and their consequences dominate me tyrannically henceforth. I had my Tristan Overture played for the first time, and, as though scales had fallen from my eyes, I saw how immeasurably far I have travelled from the world during the last eight years. This little overture was so incomprehensively new to the musicians that I had to lead them from note to note as if searching for precious stones in a mine.
Bülow, who was there, admitted to me that at the attempted performances of this piece in Germany the public had taken it on faith, while the thing in itself had remained unintelligible. I succeeded in making it intelligible both to orchestra and public; indeed I have been assured it made a very deep impression. But don't ask me how I did it! Enough that I see now that I must not dream of further creative work till I have bridged this terrible gulf! I must perform my works first. And what does that mean?
Child, it means plunging me into an ocean of sacrifice and suffering in which I shall probably perish. [...] This concert, and the lack of sufficient time for preparation, have shown me that I must become rich; I must be able to sacrifice thousands and thousands regardless, to purchase space, time and goodwill. As I am not rich, I must try to make myself so. I must let my earlier operas be given here in French and with the considerable profits derived therefrom set free my new works to the world. That is what lies before me—I have no other choice! Therefore, come death and annihilation, that is my task, and it is for that my daemon still gives me life! It would be folly to look beyond this! I look forward to nothing but the terrible pangs of bringing my last works into the world. [...]
A word or two more about external events. After most unprecedented anguish, difficulty and effort, I brought off my first concert last Wednesday. It was a festal evening; I cannot say otherwise. The orchestra, glowing with enthusiasm, hung on my nod, my wink.
They and the public received me with prolonged acclamations. Each of my pieces was accepted with a thrill of amazement and transport. The sensation caused was enormous—amazing experiences—conversions—journalists (La Patrie) rushing at me, kissing my hand. I was tired to death. That evening I received my final consecration to suffering. I must, I must go on to this, my final task. Let the flower open its petals to the world and then perish; your task be to guard the chaste bud! [...]
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner, Vol. 2, selected and ed. Wilhelm Altmann, trans. M. M. Bozman (J. M. Dent & Sons, 1927), No. 455