Saturday, December 27:
In the morning R. comes to me and says: “What is to become of a world in which the women run about the streets—and not only that, but dressed as ours are? I’ve no idea what kind of civilization is supposed to arise out of that.” He finds himself wishing that another war with France might also completely destroy that wicked country’s industry, so as to abolish its influence. “If only we could set our hopes on a great and powerful dynasty! But I fear our dynasties are heading for destruction.”
The King sends some color photographs; truly weird relationships. Yesterday R. wrote him a completely official letter and “died”; when he has to speak this language, he says, he cannot “lay it on thickly enough” — it is a senseless convention.
In the morning he plays the scene between Alberich and Hagen and looks forward to the impression it will make when Hill and Scaria sing it. “It will have the effect of two strange animals conversing together; one understands nothing of it, but it is all interesting.” In the afternoon, arrival of our good Richter, whom we are overjoyed to see again. He is what Goethe calls a “nature” in the fullest sense of the word, direct, truthful, naive, and firm — quite unflinchingly loyal to everything he regards as genuine.