Tuesday, April 9:
R. says to me in the morning: “Your father, you, and I seem to me like survivors of a vanished species, such as the mammoth. Apart from these, there has been no single contact in my life which did not end with a horrible disappointment. And when I think of our theater! That will become a mere subsidiary of Munich.”
I: “Oh, no, for Fidi will be there.” “He will want to enjoy his life, and that makes one selfish.” R. works. Toward evening he receives a wonderfully touching letter from Frau Pusinelli, which profoundly moves him.
Of Saint-Saëns and the Danse macabre R. says, “The donkey doesn’t even know how a cock crows; on the dominant, he makes it yodel.” After his walk R. comes to me, and when I ask him how things are going, he says: “Oh, very well, I know now that I shall not compose Parsifal, God preserve me from that! Oh, that scene between Kundry and Parsifal! I had a look at his cry—compared with that, Tristan’s curse is a mere joke.” “Then you must quickly think up another work for the Society of Patrons.”
In the evening my father was kind enough to play us some of his recent compositions. As R. and I prepare for bed, various episodes from Hugo’s Crime come into our minds, and we cannot stop laughing—certainly no comedy could be quite so diverting. Good news of the Society of Patrons, every day brings new subscriptions. Only one Israelite (from Kassel) has withdrawn, since he finds himself unable to reconcile the article “Modern” with his convictions. Schoolteachers, officers, all kinds of small fry are joining.