Wednesday, April 17:
In the morning R. recalls the circumstances that surrounded Fidi’s birth and, continuing from that, says how curious it is that the births of extraordinary people were always connected with torments, Parsifal, Tristan, Apollo, Perseus, it was as if divine grace always found expression in wrath, like Wotan’s behavior toward the Walsungen. When he releases me, he says: “Now I must go to my dear old primeval woman.” Departure of my father, whom I accompany as far as Neuenmarkt. R. goes for a walk and works; complains humorously about his problem with the choreography, says it will turn out like the so-called street-brawl scene in Die Meistersinger. Delight in the birds at coffee time. In the evening, coming back to the German language, he says the spirit of the language does not allow one to express oneself just in short sentences; the art lies in being clear and definite within the encapsulated structure of German. Then he tells us how ridiculous it is that, having just been composing his Parsifal, he should find such things as the cadenza of Princess Elvira’s first aria in La Muette de Portici coming into his mind as he was “putting on his trousers and shoes”!
Maundy Thursday, April 18:
To church with Bonus. R. works. Not a proper service. Communion only for a few; in the silence of the empty church I read Tauler’s sermons with great edification. Non sum! How dearly I should like, following this saintly man, to make that my motto! And to possess “a brightly burning mind amid deep silence”! In the afternoon I go with friend Wolzogen through some of the articles for the Bayreuther Blätter, and it is the lack of clarity and sloppiness of style which I have most often to point out. In the evening conversation with friend Heckel, who has been here on a visit for the past two days. It is true that in the last quarter Herr v. Hülsen put on Lohengrin and Tannhäuser only once, these performances, however, being full to bursting and sold out. R. does not feel entirely well. “I do nothing else in this world except love you,” R. says to me as we bid each other good night.
Good Friday, April 19:
All day yesterday I heard singing inside me, “Wein und Brot des letzten Mahles wandelt einst der Herr des Grabs,” and R., when I tell him this, plays it to me at the end of the day. That it is his art which found the note for the mystery of faith which possesses me, and that the wordless fervor of my soul sings through him, oh, what bliss, what grace!
In the afternoon went to church with the three younger ones; in my childhood I heard that every wish expressed at 3 o’clock, the time of the death of our Lord, would be granted; today I asked that my light be extinguished at the same moment as R.’s, that we might die united; I begged the little birds to ask with me, I asked through their song, through the faces of the little blossoms, through the buds on the trees, through the blessings of the cross, through the tones of the organ, through the prayers of the poor, through my repentance and my pain, oh, might I be heard? Whom did I ask, who is to grant it? Oh, wish so strong, hast thou the strength? Oh, thy will so almighty, become pure and worthy of the highest grace! All the mortal longing and pain which through the ages has lit and transfigured the sacred picture of the Redeemer, through all this I beg this boon!
A blessed day, a day of innocence, everything is singing, spreading its perfume, sending forth its shoots; from the little house next door the sound of “Wotan’s Farewell” wafts across to me in my peaceful surroundings, and Parsifal’s gentle sadness encloses me!
We go out together, R. and I; the hills in beautiful color, serene and mild conversation. Good Friday! R. feels that even on the northern slopes of Spain the blossoms must have been more luxuriant, the fields and meadows here must replace them for us with their tender green. R. also talks about V. Hugo, whom he calls “a grandiose fool.” In the evening Frau Materna with her husband, many reminiscences of the festival. I tell R. that I have made a prayer, and he looks at me, long, lovingly, and with deep understanding, ah, he knows what it is I have to ask!
Saturday, April 20:
R. works. The Maternas at lunch, also in the evening with Dr. Schemann. R. has a slight cold and, however sincerely he delights in the South German temperament of our good singer, he nevertheless grows tired; our intimate talks are suspended, and the whole conversation takes a different turn.