Monday, November 25:
Karlsruhe in sunshine. R. jokes, “I too have almost got to the point of acknowledging the French as superior beings, for truly the way our dear Germans behave gives one no pleasure; in the French there is still the last glimmering of that Greek culture which enlivened the Roman world.”
Marie Much tells us things which make me see how difficult Bismarck’s position still is; the native aristocracy hates him and the Upper Chamber affair is also alienating the Protestant aristocracy. He is and remains our greatest German. We have a table d’hôte lunch, and I sleep away almost the entire afternoon, since I am very tired.
In the evening Tannhäuser, the tempi either dragged or hurried by good Herr Kalliwoda, the conductor; the production dating from Herr Devrient, ridiculous and impossible. The guests in the second act perform a veritable chasse anglaise, then in the third act Elisabeth disappears into the forest, since Herr Devrient did not consider it plausible that she could climb the hill and return as a corpse in such a short time. She is discovered in the forest, and so all Wolfram’s gazing after her and the idea of the evening star also disappear; this among other things. One good singer, Venus.
R. tells me that he can no longer bear these theaters in which everything is so close; it all seems so crude. The curtain, also made with Herr Devrient’s approval, matches the pyramid which actually stands in Karlsruhe; everything gray, colorless, and pretentious.
At home in the evening R. reproaches me for not making things easier for myself. He says that it pains him, for instance, to see me packing and unpacking by myself, etc., and that he would rather I remain at home than do that. I never know what to reply to such statements.