Monday, March 24:
Still lovely weather, but Evchen put to bed; a sore throat. R. arranges his ninth volume.
In the supplement to the Conversations-Lexikon there is an entry under his name to the effect that, after R.’s friends had sought in vain to secure for him the post of musical director in Berlin, Joachim’s Hochschule had stood in the way, and his stay in Berlin had consequently proved unsuccessful, he threw himself into Bayreuth with redoubled energy. Should such lies be allowed to go unchallenged for all time?
“Proudest lady, joy to you, your Richard writes his works for you!” was today the motto, sung to Marschner’s “Proud England,” for our breakfast hour, which, now that R. is having good nights, is always friendly and cheerful. Made the decision not to go to London. A walk with the children in splendid weather. In the evening dictation.
At a very late hour R. sang the first theme of one of Beethoven’s last quartets: “What is the most exalted of words compared with that?” When the melody sounds, he says, it is as if the blotting paper is at last removed and the true picture emerges before one’s eyes.