Sunday, September 8:
A restless night. Soon after going to bed R. gets up, plays the piano; with the first note he plays I see before me great glowing roses, the theme reminds me of one he played me one morning as a movement for a quartet; a short while afterward I get up and go to him, he is reading, says he has written something down, that today Orpheus is more favorable to us than Morpheus; moonlight means a misty night!
In the morning R. still feels tight in the chest, but he works; at lunch he complains of stabbing pains in his heart, rheumatism, but nonetheless-and on this very subject-he goes into the most extravagant of high spirits, and my battle then consists, alas, in trying to follow suit while tortured by worry. Letter from Baron Perfall, expressing regret that R. would certainly not accept an invitation to attend the performance of Götterdämmerung in Munich, and making a suggestion that he come to Bayreuth with a painter to talk about the decorations for Parsifal!
After lunch, as we are walking out to the summerhouse, R. goes to the piano and plays a theme, which I guess to belong to the words “in Ewigkeit wirst du verdammt mit mir.” “I am already past that,” says R., “but the motive is used there, too. It is ‘die Erlösung, die dein Leiden endet,’ etc., then comes ‘ein andres,’ and then I call on my waistcoat pocket for aid.” He takes from it and shows me the piece of paper on which he wrote down the theme yesterday. Then he complains about his task, says the duet in Die Walküre was a real treat in comparison, and in Tristan there had also been the bliss of the pangs of yearning, but here there is only the savage pain of love.
The topic of conversation-that for a good marriage (indeed for any relationship) equality of intelligence is the main requirement, much more important than identity of character, which is indeed not a good thing-leads him to Minna, the gradual emergence of whose bad qualities was certainly due to her limited intelligence; by nature she had been goodhearted, energetic, and helpful, but then she became mistrustful because of her inability to follow R. He does not admit that she was pretty, as is generally maintained, but says that he told the wise, elderly actress Frl. Hacker, who tried to warn him off Minna, “Nothing means more to me than my poodle, my watch (he had just bought himself a silver watch), and Minna Planer.”
After his afternoon rest R. goes out for a while, but only as far as Frau Jäger’s, and when he returns he has to change completely, so hot has it made him, and he is still feeling his pains. With Malwida he goes off into reminiscences of Paris, particularly the animals, Fips and Papo! He recalls his dreadful sense of desolation when Fips died, his feeling of utter homelessness. “Now, my dear wife,” he concludes, “the home has been found, and children in plenty!” At my request he plays the Prelude to Act III of Die Meistersinger and Bach’s Prelude in E-flat Minor (No. 8), which he plays so incomparably. He is happy about Die Meistersinger, recalls the lovely production (“the prettiest” of its kind he has ever known), and he goes off to bed in cheerful mood-I with anxiety! Delight in Loldi, who today again gives me evidence of her great and tender heart.