Sunday, May 11:
R. dreamed that he was looking for me in my bedroom, that I had vanished, and that he found me in one of the children’s beds, my face covered over with little plates, which he removed from me like scales; then that we were in the King’s box, all of us together, including Fidi, and the King was unusually friendly, driving with us during the intermission, with Fidi meanwhile crawling around on R.’s shoulders!
R. orchestrates; I have an interview in connection with the celebrations: great frustrations. No painter, in fact nothing at all, to be had! . . . The suicide of two lovers, which touches me, brings from R. the remark: “It is in fact the highest affirmation of the will—they would rather not live than not find satisfaction. Why do they not defy all the obstacles? This shows that the tendency toward suicide is something ordained from the beginning; here one could call it a deep insight, in the sense approximately of: What help would it be to us to overcome all obstacles? For such cases there should be convents, such as the Buddhists have, in which complete resignation as well as complete togetherness would be possible. But our civilization offers nothing.”
Phlegmatic people he compares with the earth’s crust of ice, which gives the impression of solidity, “but they will be burned along with all the rest.” “People of my sort are like volcanoes, revealing from time to time what they look like inside; I wish I could threaten total destruction.” Sorrow that no encouraging signs come from the Prussian royal family, since one must hold them in high respect. Continued praise for Bismarck, who has worked wonders! Vexation over optimism. Despite it, nobody trusts anyone else, and one should just see what happens to a person who puts his trust in loyalty and faith. R. is very indignant with his publisher Fritzsch, who sends him no proofs and does not reply to any of his letters. Am somewhat unwell, much vexation, and also worry. R. thinks up one plan after another to rescue his undertaking.
In the evening read A Winter’s Tale with the greatest enjoyment. I told R. that Paul Heyse had once said to me, when, full of emotion, I talked about a performance of this play, “But it is only a pale imitation of Othello.”