Tuesday, June 17:
At last fine weather again. At breakfast we come to the subject of Ardinghello, and R. tells me splendid things about the Greeks and the sculptors; he ends his talk by calling Saint Cecilia the liberator. I go for a walk with the children; as I return home, R. calls to me through the window, “Putz is here, his delight knows no bounds!” Arriving indoors, I discover that the little creature has learned nothing and was ill with homesickness. The children are overjoyed, and so now everything is back as it was after an abortive experiment.
To celebrate the occasion we send the children to Rollwenzel, where, to their great surprise, we join them and drive with them to the flax-spinning mill; lovely journey, very lovely return home with a splendid sunset. R. will insist on begging my pardon for taking me into such company, but I am glad to see good and diligent people who are well disposed toward him.
In the evening, since R. assures me there will be no repetition of the repulsive scenes, we continue with Ardinghello and are once again delighted with the originality of the judgments and the liveliness of the descriptions. “Another true German,” says R., “there was a good streak in that period.”
R. has the idea of giving lectures on the subject “What is German?” in the large cities, and he would charge a high admission price for the benefit of Bayreuth; he says this would not put such a strain on him or demoralize him in the way that concerts do. Reflections on the difficulties of our undertaking, singers, decorations—it would be as much as I could expect, R. says, if I were to reach 70 before seeing this performance!