. . . In the third act you are too vigorous for my liking, too sensuously strong—everything you do is too material. . . . Everything is calculated here in terms of a ghostlike tonelessness, with a gradual rise to no more than an expression of affecting softness. . . .
I had got thus far when your letter reached me. I see where you have now got to: you employ toward me a manner of speech which I find myself able to understand only by casting my mind back to the very first period of my painful career. Permit me to say that you are mistaken when you speak of having laid yourself open to ridicule, and I can only wonder who has been repeating the chatter of the boulevards to you. I ask myself doubtfully whether this letter of mine can still serve any good purpose with you, or whether it will only make matters worse. However, I will not all at once give up the last hope concerning my art. From this letter you can see how very high my opinion is of you, and the sure consciousness of this must preserve you from a superficial misunderstanding of the spirit in which I have addressed myself to you. But on one point I withdraw what I have said in this letter of mine: I am prepared to cut the passage in question. May you find peace! Take care of yourself, and—should it be possible—form an opinion of me that in the future will ensure for me rather more regard on your part than is evident in the tone of your letter today.
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 232