Monday, July 12:
R. comes up with a letter; Judith Mendès announces a visit. For me a letter from Claire, good and affectionate. Work with the children. R. dreamed that he was flying with me. Telegram from Munich theater manager, asking whether it would be convenient to send his scene painter to see R. In spite of being very unwell R. works on his “buffo duet” (Wotan and Siegfried).
Yesterday evening R. told me how, after writing his Columbus Overture, he wanted to do a Napoleon overture; he intended to depict his hero in all his glory up to the Russian campaign, from then on in his decadence. For the apex of the pyramid he needed a gong stroke, but began to doubt whether this was permissible in music, and asked somebody. Since he could not make up his mind to use the gong, he abandoned the whole thing.
It struck him as ironic when, listening in Paris to Berlioz’s symphony for the victims of the July Revolution, he had found the gong being used frequently and very logically to a terrorizing point, whereas he himself as a young man could not make up his mind to use a single stroke! Music should be forceful, he said, we have the kettledrum and the trumpet, but the gong is barbarous; what is needed is something of that prudent quality the Greeks call sophrosyne, the gong stroke robs music of all ideality.
In the afternoon, when we wanted to rest, the Serovs arrived with their son. Since the boy understands only Russian, Loldi declares, “He doesn’t know a thing.” R. says of the boy to his father: “Not a musician, but a councilor of state straight away—la mort sans phrase.” The visit was something of a burden to us, inasmuch as it disturbed the routine of our accustomed life.
Mme Ser. told me she would never have imagined that I lived so entirely for my children. With the little ones until late in the evening beneath the blossoming linden tree. Later looked at Raphael illustrations. R. very worn out.