Thursday, January 25:
We talked a lot about Beethoven and his death: “Oh, if only there were no such thing as genius! It brings more suffering than comfort and joy.” “The church used to know what to do with geniuses; when it disappears, the last refuge for geniuses will also have disappeared.” Then he calls out to me: “There is something I won’t tell you.” “Oh, please tell me!” “I am going to begin Parsifal and shan’t let it out of my sight until it is finished,” whereupon I laugh aloud for joy.
Yesterday I told him of the curious impression Iphigenia made on me when I recently read it again, its maxims, its noble savages beyond all improvement (Arkas); he says it is like a sacrificial feast, which starts with people singing, “Come, slay and roast our enemies,” and then the whole thing becomes an idyll. As regards the maxims, he recites proverbs in a bombastic manner, as if they were question and answer: “It is the last straw which breaks the camel’s back.” “But devil take the hindmost.” “For, after all, charity begins at home.”
Around midday, however, R. is not very well, and in the evening he tells me that the mail had brought him some scoffing newspaper reports and requests for autographs. He takes up Machiavelli, the life of Castruccio Castracani and also parts of The Prince, says that M. was a Greek in his truthful way of posing questions.