Wednesday, February 28:
R. sings something from Die Zauberflote and says to me, “Sarastro - that, you see, is German: this mild aura of humanity beckoning to one through all the stupidities of opera.”
Yesterday he read me his foreword to the articles, a sad look back on the times in Munich. He dreamed in three sections of a great party I had given without his knowledge.
Fidi sends Rus away from the fire; he has noticed that we cannot bear that. R. says to him, “You’ll be a doctor, you’re so clever.” “No - emperor,” replies Fidi.
R. works, but he is not well and complains of his sickly condition, which prevents his enjoying his happiness. Letter from Karl von Gersdorff; it seems that Baron Cohn is collecting the money after all. Walk, Countess B., dancing lesson. In the evening Schopenhauer. (We hear from the Nürnberg theater manager. Success of Batz and Voltz.)