Tuesday, October 1:
When we were walking in some quite remote spot yesterday, a boy called out, “Herr Richard Wagner, give me a kreutzer,” which amused us vastly. Today R. is writing his letter to the people of Bologna: “It won’t be understood, but never mind, one is never writing for those one is writing to.”
Catastrophic lunch; our cook just cannot cook. R., however, very kind and patient about it! For his sake I work on my dressing table, which he wants to look very decorative.
Toward evening friend Feustel, who tells us about all sorts of things, among others the King’s illness: he rode off to his highest hunting lodge during the cold weather, had to walk on foot an hour and a half through the snow, spent three days alone there, and then returned home with severe catarrh.
Also about Frl. Spitzeder, the Catholic public benefactress, with her carriage, diamonds, cigar, soup kitchens, and people’s banks, who boxes people on the ears and appears like a princess before the tribunal, saying she possesses nothing, “it is all property held in trust.” Possible only in Munich. The editor of the N. Nachrichten, who drew attention to the dangerous nature of this lady, was beaten up, and the Archbishop, who counseled caution toward her, was mocked in Catholic party newspapers.
Feustel has more or less been offered the Finance Ministry, but he does not want it at any price; he would get no support, he says, from either the King or Lower Chamber, and in addition a hostile press. We talked about Protestants and Catholics; R. quoted what I recently said to him on the subject, and Feustel says a friend of his sums it up in the words, “We Protestants are no more accepted now than we have ever been.” Our friend’s visit gives us much pleasure.
In the evening continued reading the novel In Szepter und Kronen.