Sunday, March 9:
R. had a better night; he then gets up early and is amused to find me reading his "Letter to Berlioz" in bed. Our conversation leads us to reflect what a pity it is that no businessman ever came along with sufficient vision to pay R. an advance on the certain appreciation in value of Rienzi, Der fliegende Holländer, Tannhäuser, and Lohengrin, and then to recover his advance, leaving R. in possession of his works, which so far have only cost him money.
R. feels that businessmen are too demoralized; Goethe had Cotta, Schiller Göschen, the second half of the 18th century had made great advances, but with the Restoration in the post-Napoleonic era things had gone from bad to worse; E. Devrient's Goethe celebrations were a scar over the wounds, the Schiller celebrations arranged throughout the world by Jews appalling!
We talk about French expressions in the German language, and R. says they are essential for purposes of irony, just as in philosophy such words as "immanent" are essential only a deep religious faith would be of any use in this connection, such as existed among the Indians, who could play with the most awesome things, since they were firm articles of belief.
About the Holy Roman Empire how everything lay in its name.
President Grant's speech, placing his trust in a language and a state, thus virtually letting art be buried!
R. wanted to work on his essay, but was disturbed by a visit from Feustel with a patron from Augsburg, which vexed him a great deal.
Family lunch. I write to Clemens and to Marie Schleinitz. Silly, nonsensical letters. The Quatuor Society in Milan wants R. for a concert, the Court brewery in Berlin wants a composition from him for the opening of their concert hall, the Society of Fine Art in London sends poems, but with regard to things it would be important for us to know, silence reigns everywhere: Loser, Dannreuther, the people in Vienna. Mme Lucca has now resigned herself to the fact that we are not going to Milan and has withdrawn Lohengrin.
R. has a bad foot, we go for a walk together in the palace gardens, a feeling of spring; in the morning we heard finches. R. preoccupied with his undertaking, constantly thinking of it. Schott writes that he wishes to exhibit the score of Das Rheingold in Vienna, R. writes on it an inscription: "Started in reliance on the emergence of a German spirit and completed to the glory of his noble benefactor, King Ludwig of Bavaria."
In the evening we work on the biography. I remark jokingly to R. what capital we are bequeathing to Fidi: he will receive the house, the decorations of which are keeping us much occupied at the moment; then, until 30 years after our death, our royalties, and at the end of these 30 years he can publish the biography.
"And then," says R., "he can compose Parsifal." I shake my head, and R. continues: "Yes, who can lay such things down? He must cut himself off from us entirely, if not to the same degree, nevertheless in the same way that I cut myself off from my family. Impressions will influence him, naturally; if I had not received my impressions from Weber and the symphonies of Beethoven, God knows what would have become of me. But he must develop in his own way, which we cannot foresee, and then he may amount to something."