Friday, September 6:
R. had a tolerable night, though he did get up once and is still somewhat languid. Reverting to the subject of the impression made by the international-exposition building, I observe that the fact the French have succeeded so well without Emperor N. is the best proof that people do not need princes. Then R., speaking of the German princes, says, “They do harm with their lack of usefulness, for they could be of infinite use, and their not being so is harmful.” He works; at lunch he looks somewhat better, he tells me his dream, in which he saw a spider on my neck and shooed it away.
We return to the subject of princes, R. remarks how usurpers left their sons with the necessity of performing great deeds, and their rule soon came to an end (the Lancastrians and Philip of Macedonia and Alexander); a legitimate prince, he says, does not have this need, whereas N. III had always to perform tricks like a buffoon. We tell Malwida about the May Festival, and R. says it was something unique, never to be repeated, like the Idyll on the staircase. Over coffee we read a biography of R. in a musical encyclopedia, written by a Herr Musiol, and are delighted with the correctness of his judgment on Opera and Drama.
A nice warm day, which does R. good. He still enjoys the garden and once again loses himself in making Arabian-style construction plans: he would like to turn the forecourt, where the King’s bust stands, into a conservatory with a glass roof and palm trees, he already sees it in his mind. But in the afternoon he says, “I have given up my construction plan.” Before that he had laughingly quoted Dr. Wille, who once remarked, when N. III’s buildings were being praised, “All disagreeable tyrants used to build.”
He talks a lot, among other things of a journey to Naples in the winter, for he has decided in favor of a stay amid natural surroundings, rather than in “picture-gallery cities.” I wish it for the sake of his health and as recuperation from his exhausting work. Today he composes “Und ob mich Gott und Welt verstosst, in dir entsündigt sein und erlöst.” In the afternoon visit from friend W., who tells us Bismarck’s latest saying-that he cannot go along with the Catholic church, it has nothing to offer-which indeed amuses us greatly. After R. has joined us for a while, I beg him to leave us and just to read Ducs de Bourgogne, and he does so.
Toward evening he calls us to have some beer with him, takes great delight in the children, who have harnessed the two dogs to a cart. After that rest again, and reading. A Herr Hacker in Würzburg sends us a book about some aspect of Goethe, with a nice letter; R. says, “If only people would look not so much at the insides of the poets, but a little around themselves!” In the evening our friends the Jägers; R. at first in rather poor spirits, but he soon cheers up and talks about two popular figures in Dresden some time ago, Peter Kroll and Jungfer Sternickel, and how once, returning from school with Ottilie, he had come upon Peter Kroll in his curious clothes and three-cornered hat, being followed by all the street crowds of Dresden; the children were looking on in silent alarm, as if watching a ghost, and then he shouted at them, “Well, don’t you have tongues in your heads?” He liked being the butt of scandal.
Then we talked about the peculiar secret tribunal now active in Russia, three more people have been murdered, and in the hand of one of them was found his death sentence, in his heart the dagger. When, before going to bed, R. adjusts Fidi’s blankets, Fidi says softly in his sleep, “Now I shall scratch you,” which makes R. laugh heartily.