Wagner and Paris - just look on the letterbox .

No, not another account of Richard Wagner's generally miserable stays in the city.

Just last year, a Parisian friend was passing the poky, dark entrance to the courtyard where the composer once had rooms on the Rue Jacob in St Germain des Pres. For once, the locked front door had been left open. She couldn't resist the chance to see yet another of Wagner's many temporary homes. But once inside, she realized that she had no idea just which apartment had been his. A current resident was crossing the courtyard.
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur? Can you tell me where Richard Wagner lived?" The man thought for a moment, frowned, then said, "Why, you just look on the letter box. The apartment number will be under his name." A lovely thought - that a hundred and fifty years on, that letter box might still be there, elegantly calligraphed missives dropping into it, while the utility bills and junk mail fill its neighbours.

A few blocks away on the quays of the Seine across from the Louvre is the Hotel du Quai Voltaire. Wagner stayed there too, as did Sibelius, Camille Pissaro, and Oscar Wilde among others. Last year, for my birthday on January 22nd, I had, what I thought was the brilliant idea of renting Wagner's old room and celebrating right there, where according to the hotel reception, he worked on part of Die Meistersinger. I'd have to verify that with Britain's Wagner experts, Messrs Millington or Spencer ,but until I do, the idea of sleeping in a room that might have been the birthplace of the great quintet or even a few bars of the prize song is beguiling. Alas, last year, the builders were in the room - boom boxes and bum cleavage are not quite what I had in mind. Still, it's a plan to file away for a future grey Paris winter.

Absolute Happiness – Ben Heppner and Wagner at the Salle Pleyel

Absolute Happiness – Ben Heppner and Wagner at the Salle Pleyel

Ben Heppner missed the live Met broadcast of Tristan und Isolde on Saturday. Robert Dean Smith, his replacement did a fine job. But I felt a little nostalgic for big Ben from BC – especially given a stunning concert performance of his that I attended in Paris just over a year ago. Heppner gave two Wagner concerts in Paris last year – within 2 weeks of each other and at two different venues. The first at the Theatre des Champs Elysees featured Siegmund’s glorious music from Die Walkure.

I had arrived in Paris a couple of days earlier and had noted the dates. But, in an extraordinary moment of stupidity, managed to miss this first concert. I knew where it was, I’d noted when it was. Then I went off for tea and very delicate little French pastries at La Duree on the Left Bank and somehow, I got addled. When Ben Heppner was greeting spring over on the Right Bank, I was standing in the frozen pizza section of the Montparnasse Monoprix wondering whether to go for a good solid Margarita or throw in a bit of pepperoni for good measure. Next morning when I wandered to the theatre to try for a ticket and found that all that glorious sound had gone off into the ether the previous night, well, had there been a nearby bench, I would have sat down and wept.

All was not lost. Heppner was coming back to the Salle Pleyel and this time he was bringing Tristan with him. I got there on the right day and got a good seat. But I wasn’t that excited. I prefer the joy of a young Siegmund greeting spring and love to the mournful, drawn out delirium and death of Tristan. I knew that Heppner had had a few health problems. And I had no expectations from a dramatic point of view. This was a concert performance. The man would have to stand there in a tux, alone, in front of an orchestra and make us believe that he is raging, brooding, wounded Tristan - yearning unto death.

I was sitting next to a small bird-like French woman in her mid-eighties. We had a minor skirmish when I complained about my uncomfortable seat and she accused me of being a typical Parisian whiner (?!). Then the Orchestre National de Paris played the Parsifal prelude. My neighbour turned to me with tears in her eyes and said “Cette musique, c’est le bonheur absolu.” Absolute happiness. “On a de la chance de le savoir.” Yes, she was right. We are both lucky to know how much this music can add to a life. Then Ben came and Ben sang. But he didn’t just sing. He stood there in that stiff dinner jacket and white tie and turned into the dying Tristan before our eyes. The big old boy from British Columbia morphed into this wild, tormented, tragic hero.

The audience in the Salle Pleyel leapt to its feet. And the French aren’t generous with their standing ovations. Another French friend of mine, a gifted concert pianist has described his experience of discovering Wagner as comparable to the initial stages of falling in love. I’ll save that for another entry. In the meantime, I wish Ben Heppner a speedy recovery. With less than a handful of Tristans on the planet, we need them all – particularly one who can do what he did on that December night of ‘bonheur absolu’ in the Salle Pleyel.