Thursday, June 27:
R. awakened by a troublesome dream, the importunities of a former acquaintance: “God, what will Cosima think?” In the palace gardens with the children, I tidy the house, then give the children lessons while R. writes to Dr. Jauner, asking for a report on his earnings and complaining of negligence in the production of Rheingold, also that it has on occasion been performed after Walküre. He also writes to Dr. Ernst in Cologne, who is really “in earnest” about his Ring performances and would like, afterward, to take his production to Berlin. Also to the publisher Fritzsch, who has asked for a composition: he says he cannot supply one, but he mentions a possible performance of his symphony in the Euterpe in the coming winter, on its 46th anniversary. Recently he told me that he felt like composing all sorts of things into it, from Parsifal, Götterdämmerung, etc. “I am writing letters again,” R. says. “I think my final hour must be approaching.” The death of the Queen of Spain arouses melancholy feelings, and we are haunted by the thought that it was an unnatural death. “Well, Spain!” says R. “Immediately after that comes Munich and then Vienna, if you are looking for a vulnerable spot!”
Friend Gross visits me to say that he is standing security for the loan, whereupon I beg him to let me take it on. Nobody, he says, is willing to lend even a single cent to the King or the theater management. (I do not tell R. this, in order not to alarm him.) “Look down, O gracious one,” he whispers to me as we part in the afternoon. “You are the gracious one,” I reply, and continue with this theme in my thoughts! Nice drive to the Eremitage after supper, the sun gleaming gold through the cheerful green of the trees, what could be lovelier? Tender farewell to this day and also to R. in the evening. “Just wait, you’ll see what an explosion of creativity there’s going to be!” I: “Just keep well and cheerful, then I shall be happy.” Thus our parting, and I wish I could hold fast forever every word from his lips, every glance! At supper R. spoke of the Emperor’s condition: not yet ready for a parade, he had said, “You see how one’s whole imagination is captured by these things.” And: “Terrible thoughts take possession of one; it is as if an injustice that has been committed were seeking vengeance - to have dispossessed three princes simply because my minister talked me into it!” Tappert has written a witty review about Bülow’s compositions, performed in Erfurt. Letter to friend Wolzogen from Prof. Bernays, who says he does not dare to write about Die Meistersinger. “So he says,” we remark amid smiles, quoting the anecdote. N.’s book provokes R. into saying playfully, “Oh, art and religion are just what is left in human beings of the monkey’s tail, the remains of an ancient culture!” He also talks about the patience of a genius, which others notice only when now and again it turns into impatience; and about teasing, which R. explains as a kindhearted wish to conceal one’s superiority and thus to teach. “Actually,” R. adds with a laugh, “genius is simply envy.”