Wednesday, January 1:
New Year activities; various things by mail, among them a folder of manuscripts from Prof. Nietzsche containing forewords to unwritten books. Otherwise nothing to give us pleasure; the people in Vienna more and more incomprehensible, nobody knows how much there is in the bank. We work out a plan for a concert in Berlin and a reading in Frau von Schleinitz’s house before the assembled might of intellect and breeding. It is such a gloomy phase which we are now entering, as if everything were against us; one is literally set upon by ugly things, a newspaper is sent to us which reports that someone had asked for an album leaf, whereupon R. sent him two certificates of patronage, which he dutifully signed! No wonder that R. is utterly dispirited and ill. He has written to London asking if it would be possible to earn a large sum there. God knows!
In the evening we read Prof. N.’s forewords; we also read Aristophanes, bits from The Birds, which enchant us. Then a conjurer, Herr Smith, came and enchanted us with his amazing dexterity. R. says, “A person like that is a wild character, in fact, a flawed rogue; something has held him back from becoming one, a certain fear, and now the urge finds expression in this way.” Prof. Nietzsche’s manuscript also does not restore our spirits; there are now and again signs of a clumsy abruptness, however deep the underlying feelings. We wish he would confine himself principally to classical themes. (Wrote all kinds of letters to all corners of the earth.) Today (the 4th) Richter arrives, bringing good news of my father. (During these days R. continues work on his articles.) R. amused me very much with his description of a dispute with the dean, who is reading Hartmann’s Philosophy of the Unconscious with much enjoyment; R. argued heatedly against a philosophy that gives pleasure, the dean against Schopenhauer, whom he has not read. The 7th volume of R.’s writings has been published. Yesterday we went through The Marriage of Figaro (last scene) and afterward read the same scene in Beaumarchais, and once again felt the transfiguring influence of the music. “In the play they are like beetles, struggling laboriously on the ground; in the opera they are butterflies playing in the air.”