Sunday, December 2:
R. tells me he dreamed of having announced a concert in which he was to sing ballades by Loewe and play Beethoven's A-flat Major Sonata, but when the time came to begin, he felt uneasy and sent for Anton Rubinstein, who was among those present, and asked him to play in his place; he himself went to a restaurant to refresh himself, and there, in Zurich, Baumgartner told him of Rubinstein's tremendous success. R. then wanted to sing, but Baumgartner told him the people were already leaving, quite satisfied with the recital, though somewhat offended at R., who was annoyed about not having given his recital.
R. works, and after lunch he says, “I am writing Parsifal only for my wife. If I had to depend on the German spirit, I should have nothing more to say.” After the fourth act of Henry VI, Part III he says to me, “I still intend to write my music of mourning for the fallen, but there won't be any apotheosis at the end, you can be sure of that.” When he returns from his walk today he says, “For the sake of the house I shall end my mourning music with the buzzings of A Midsummer Night's Dream - those are the chuckling Jews.”
Worry about Fidi: we have tried to find boys for him to play with, but it has brought us nothing but coarseness, vulgarity, and mean idleness. Quite comedy, we conclude the tragedy, our admiration and emotion increasing all the time. Each newly introduced character is alive and completely individual; the conversation between Warwick and Gloster is incredible in its humor. Yesterday R. remarked particularly what a tragic effect is produced when the impostor's wife cries out in the first act of Henry VI, Part II, “We did it for pure need.” A horrifying excuse, which goes unheeded even by the noble Gloster; the people, rendered quite stupid by this contempt and unable in consequence to listen to the good and high-minded Henry, find their brutal expression in the figure of Jack Cade. The nobles show no trace of feeling, only a magnanimous interpretation of Fate in relation to themselves. We continue for a long time to talk about the poet, who sees, feels, and describes absolutely everything, without ever giving a sign of his own feelings. We think of friend Nietzsche, who rebelled against Shakespeare: “He always demands a certain kind of form,” says R., “and this is a malformation of sublimity and revelation.” And so we take leave of the work which has provided us with a complete picture of the dreadfulness of life. If only I could describe how fine, great, sublime in expression, sound, and gesture R. appeared as he was reading it! How much I enjoy the privilege of perceiving and watching him like this all by myself, yet I would still like to let the whole world share it! I now feel as if we were once more living our Tribschen life - once more we have turned our backs on everything, R. is working, the children flourishing, and I forget everything in contemplating his kindness and his love!