Most honoured friend,
It grieves me deeply to have taken so long to answer your esteemed letter, and, although I shall attempt to make good that deficiency now, I regret to say that I am not in a position to meet your wishes entirely. Firstly: - although reports have recently reached me from Dresden informing me that, after countless delays, there is no longer sufficient time, before Schröder-Devrient goes on leave, for my opera to have been properly rehearsed and performed by then, for which reason it will not now be produced until after Schröder-Devrient’s return (i.e. this coming August or September), - although - as I say - the immediate reason for my journey thus falls to the ground, I have none the less not altered my plans in this regard, but shall be leaving Paris this coming March, in order to see my German homeland again for the first time in six years, and at the same time to allow my wife to take the waters at Toplitz. I shall remain in Germany at least until the autumn, and shall probably not return to Paris until next winter. In the circumstances I am afraid that I cannot take up your kind offer concerning reports from Paris; I have, however, done what I can to find another correspondent & have discussed the matter with Anders, a co-editor on the Gazette musicale, and an employé at the Library. He is not only an extremely erudite musician, he also wields an eloquent pen; unfortunately, his somewhat advanced age (he is 50) means that he has grown somewhat indolent and irresolute, and the only way to persuade him to make regular contributions would be the payment of a regular and fixed honorarium, which I myself — I may add — would have declined to accept. If this friend of mine is acceptable to you, I would ask you to be so kind as to write to him, making a firm and definite offer: since he himself is not a composer, you will find in him a wholly impartial and independent reviewer. His address is G. E. Anders, Rue de Seine St. Germain No 59, Hôtel de France.
I ought really to have made a point of sending you at least a couple more articles, but circumstances have made it impossible for me to do so. I have had to take over a whole pile of subsistence work for Schlesinger which, particularly if I intend completing it by March, literally leaves me without a moment’s free time. But in order to show you that I had the best of intentions, I am enclosing herewith some notes which I had begun: [...]
And so, to be brief and to the point: Halévy’s Reine de Chypre is not bad, some parts of it are attractive, but there is a good deal that is trivial - taken as a whole the work has no special significance. The criticism that it is noisy is unjust; he hits the nail on the head in the 4th act (at least by contemporary standards), for the rest there is a noticeable attempt throughout the work to achieve simplicity, especially in the instrumentation. — Do not forget that Halévy is not well-to-do. He assures me that, if he were, he would never again write anything for the theatre, but would concentrate instead upon symphonies, oratorios & the like; because at the Opera he is enslaved by the interests of the director and the singers, and obliged to write intentionally inferior stuff. - He is open and honest, and not a premeditatedly cunning trickster like Meyerbeer. But you must not be rude about Meyerbeer! He is my protector and - joking apart - an amiable person.
[...] We Germans delude ourselves dreadfully about the liberal tastes of Paris audiences, their apparent fairness, & so on. But Paris is large; why should one not be able to find 200 people who can acquire a taste for Beethoven’s symphonies at the Conservatoire? But the real opera public only understands the cancan, which in German means refined filth lacking in warmth and passion (which is what makes it so shocking). In heaven’s name, consider Berlioz: this man has been so utterly ruined by France, or rather by Paris, that it is no longer possible to tell what he might have achieved in Germany on the strength of his talent. I used to like him because he possesses a thousand things which mark him out as an artist: if only he had become a complete buffoon, being only half of one he is insufferable - and most dreadful of all - infinitely tedious. Not long ago he gave a concert which systematically drove people insane. Those who had not already been driven mad with boredom and dégoût certainly had been by the end of the apotheosis of his July Symphony - but out of joy; that is the remarkable thing: in this last movement there are passages so magnificent and sublime that they can never be surpassed. - In all this Berlioz is completely isolated in Paris. Public taste in Paris has sunk immeasurably: cast your mind back to the time of Boyldieu’s Woman in White - Auber’s Locksmith and Mason, Silent Woman etc., and compare them with what is being produced now - Adam etc. At the Opéra-Comique it is simply dreadful: Auber’s tawdry formulas make up the kind of system that is practised today by such young composers as Thomas, Clapisson etc. Everywhere you look you find the most appalling apathy. -
It is the Italians who are chiefly to blame for debasing what was once the attractive French style of the Opéra-Comique: they are idolized and imitated unquestioningly. The couplets which were once so attractive have become a worthless and utterly tuneless clattering of three quavers to a bar, or else they imitate Italian sentimentalism (!). But Italian sentimentalism is a real calamity, since it misleads even honest people: all they are concerned about is the singers’ execution, so that in the end even the composer becomes a member of the audience, applauding the singers and forgetting that it was he who wrote the music in the first place. - This is the story of the Stabat Mater in a nutshell; week in, week out it is performed at the Italian Opera, with Italians singing it, which is what makes it acceptable - it is fashionable. To sum up: all that matters here is virtuosity! Liszt plays the part of the fool here just as well as Duprez does on stage. Everything that looms into sight on the Parisian horizon, however good it may be - becomes inferior and foolish: think of Berlioz. - I hear that Mendelssohn is rumoured to have been commissioned to write an opera for Paris: if Mendelssohn is mad enough to accept the commission, he is much to be pitied; my own view is that he is not even capable of achieving a popular success with an opera in Germany; he is too much of an intellectual and totally lacking in any great passion; how will he be received in Paris? - If only he had seen Der Freischütz! - How happy we should be if we could break completely free from Paris! It has had its Grande Époque, which, admittedly, had a good and salutary effect upon us. But that is now a thing of the past, and we must renounce our faith in Paris! - There is probably no longer any need for me to remind you of this
[...]
In the end I have covered a whole sheet of paper, and cannot help wondering whether, had I done it differently, it would have been any better. You have neither a letter nor a report. Forgive me.
If, as long as I am still in Paris, I find further opportunity to write anything sensible for you, you may count upon my doing so. In the mean time I would ask for your indulgence, and assure you of the amiable regard with which I am
Your most obedient servant,
Richard Wagner.
[...]
Source: Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, trans. and ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (W. W. Norton & Company, 1988), No. 44