Monday, January 3:
For several days now R. has been dreaming of wandering through lovely country, this time with Rus, whose eyes, coated with white dust, gave him a ghostly appearance; I, lying awake, hear the cowbells of Tribschen, they literally ring in my ears and remind me of lovely times. Dear God, how will R. ever be able to return to the main thing, his composing?
Yesterday we read a well-meaning piece that still contained untruths; when one considers that R. always stakes his own property on everything that he does, and then this slander! The report goes on to say that insulting caricatures have been made both of him and of me: “How nasty of these people!” What cause I have given people to behave like this toward me remains a mystery. R. says they only want to make sure that he never comes to Vienna again!
We read a report of a visit to Beethoven by old Wieck, and a letter from Czerny about the first performance of the 9th Symphony; very affecting, as everything one hears about a genius always is, his language “nobly lamenting.” At supper R. says, “Only in times of storm and stress shall Wagner again put on his evening dress.” He goes out with Fidi, and as the bells begin to toll the little fellow says, “Now we can hear what we have just seen,” for they had passed by the bell tower. In the evening we read The Merchant of Venice.