[...] Kietz has mentioned on a number of occasions that you would like to hear my views on Berlioz & the modern French school of music associated with him. I intend writing an article on the subject for the Abendzeitung; I hope you will permit me on this occasion, therefore, to say only a few things about the personal impression which my acquaintance with Berlioz has left on me. The first piece of his that I heard was his Romeo & Juliet symphony, in which the insipidity of the work’s outward economy violently repelled me, for all the composer’s evident genius. The truth is that Berlioz is so totally isolated among French musicians that, deprived as he is of the necessary point of support, he is obliged to grope around in some fantastic wilderness, so that it is extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, for him to develop his prodigious powers along lines that are consistent with beauty. He is, & remains, an isolated phenomenon, though he is French in the fullest sense of the word. We Germans are fortunate; for we have our Mozart & Beethoven in our blood, & know how our pulses should beat. But Berlioz has no precursor, he is condemned to an eternal fever. None the less, we in Germany do Berlioz the most flagrant disservice if we imagine him, without the least justification, as a charlatan. On the contrary, his outward appearance is strangely at odds with his inner genius. What he has to give comes from his innermost depths, he is inwardly consumed, & is the only French composer who doesn’t grow fat on his own success. His is a highly poetical nature, which is all the more remarkable in that he is so very much a Frenchman in every other respect, & can express himself only in the most total extremes. It is only quite recently that I have sorted out my views on Berlioz, - in fact, not until about 3 months ago, when I heard his Symfonie Fantastique. But at the same time I discovered that what justifies his eccentric means of outward expression is to be found in the seductive powers of the orchestra for which he writes; he has felt himself involuntarily misled into turning instrumental music into a form of virtuosity. - Vieuxtemps does exactly the same sort of thing, but by different means, inasmuch as he begins at the opposite extreme. He reduces the element of virtuosity, & if I were to venture a view on Vieuxtemps’ later works, it is that I foresee them as part of a reductive process, so that his triumph will consist in his returning to an original state of chastely pure beauty. Progress & expansion are not something we should look for in Vieuxtemps; his achievements will always be of a negative value. He lacks the passion to write creatively; he is only 20 but is already a man; he has had no youth; the realm of presentiment is unknown to him, all he sees around him is daylight, & that is why he is incapable of feeling the rapture of warmth. But he has no choice in the matter if he is to complete the task that is set him, a task which he feels quite clearly & which he solves with complete & calm awareness. Natures such as his must be regarded as wise emissaries of providence, and must be all the stronger in that they have to combat enthusiasm. Vieuxtemps’ name is altogether characteristic. His last concerto is a beautiful piece, I should have found it even more edifying if I could have detected a greater intensity in its motifs. You have no need to fear the influence of Berlioz’s music on him, for Vieuxtemps is already fully mature & conscious in all that he does. It is possible that you imagine the turmoil of Paris to be more confused & seductive than it actually is. Berlioz, as I say, is utterly isolated; - the greatest evil here is the rampant superficiality to which every composer surrenders in his quest for public approval; everyone sacrifices his inner worth to it & grows insipid out of a sense of conviction. Even so, I must admit that the dramatic music of the French far surpasses that of the Germans. I was horrified to come across a handful of German operas here by Reissiger, Lobe etc. Is it possible that the views of German composers concerning the art of melody & song are so misguided that they believe they must always give priority to melodic needs, so that even the most ordinary conversational phrases such as “How are you?” & “Where have you come from?” are spun out along thematic lines, producing an apparent continuum of sound where the nature of the thing demands short, pithy strokes? - The melodious outpourings are, of course, just as one would expect; the result is what we aptly call “note-spinning” & a vocal line that turns into mere singsong. Dramatic truth is completely lost sight of, & however much the French may become bogged down in a thousand flirtatious details, they nevertheless know where to stop, using a short stroke that is not susceptible to further development.
But I can see that I’m beginning to get carried away. Forgive me for prattling on like this! I am one of those people who always imagines that a question has been put to him, which is why I for ever end up offering uncalled-for opinions.
[...]
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 35