Friday, October 18:
R. slept well, he tells me, but he had to get up once during the early hours. At breakfast he talks about his symphonies, how one might perhaps do something in this form of music if one did not feel obliged to compose in four movements, and if one shaped the motives, first, second, return to the first, into movements.
Then much about the German Reich, with much melancholy! “And so we are agreed,” says R., half in fun but half in earnest, “that it is done for.” “As I said, I am ashamed that so many people have proved me wrong, and knew that a Pomeranian Junker would never understand German culture.” [Added in margin: “not exactly in those words, lost his composure.”]
He goes to his work, and when he calls me to lunch he says he now knows exactly how things should be, he must not introduce anything isolatedly, it must all be in context; and so his prelude to the 3rd act will introduce the theme of Titurel's funeral, just as in the prelude to the 1st act he brought in the song of the Knights of the Grail. There is no place, he says, for a big “independent affair” depicting Parsifal's wanderings.
After lunch some further newspaper reports about the laws on denunciation and on socialism provoke from R. the remark: “That led to Austria's downfall, and now we are doing just what Austria did: landlords are obliged to give the names of their guests!” Then he tells me that the English newspapers are declaring openly that Prince Bismarck is no good at domestic affairs. Much talk about German workers emigrating.
Walk with R., the children, and the dogs between the poplars to Konradsreuth, autumnal atmosphere, a bat flitting above the fields, but feelings of contentment inside us; R. laughs: “We in Bayreuth! With the children!” He deals with some business matters in the evening, and after supper we read some works by Leopardi which Malwida has sent us.
To start with, however, there is a certain amount of prejudice to overcome: R. does not care for poems, the first, “To Italy,” does not grip him, and the first dialogue seems trivial; yet another has no appeal at all, and we soon abandon the story of mankind; but the dialogue between Tristan and a friend dispels all misgivings; on reading one sentence, R. gets up and writes a note about “then” and “now”: “Strong characters with a limited outlook, now weak characters with a wider outlook, which is harmful for that very reason.” At the conclusion of it R. says, “Now we have got to know him.” We then read “Plotinus and Porphyrios,” and R. declares this to be the best thing ever written about suicide; he is full of admiration for the fine, clear-cut classical form of this dialogue. We also enjoy “Ruysch and the Mummies,” and certain isolated thoughts.
At the conclusion he says, “Yes, I know it all, and it is above all the disgust which one feels most deeply; but I never think of it; there is one thing they knew nothing about.” Then he talks about our being together here on this earth. What is suffering, distress, compared with this moment? To hear from his own lips that it is our love, and not the joy of creating, which makes him forget this misery! I, poor blissful mortal that I am, take leave of this day in a frenzy of delight, what life or death could prevail against this?
When he calls suicide the highest affirmation of the will, I: “Oh, don't say that, for I don't want to live without you.” He: “That is something different.” He explains that Leopardi fled before an outbreak of cholera; thus, “one wants to decide for oneself, and not leave the power over our death to some brute force.”