Tuesday, November 5:
A good night for R., and he works. At lunch friend Wolzogen with his entire family; R. very cheerful and kind; we discuss the “Knights of the Grail,” who have sent us an outline of their ideas. “They are not much to look at, something like the early Christians, and their catacombs are in the Orlando. But a beginning must be made, and though I cannot say I expected it to be like this — and have indeed to keep silent about it — I must all the same admit they are on the right path; however, it would look very ridiculous were I to give them my blessing!”
He goes for a short walk, and in the evening reads the French text of Fernand Cortez, amused and astonished by what our neighbors consider to be poetry: “Les ardeurs legitimes” amuses him greatly, particularly the final word! He criticizes the opera’s childish barbarism, also Spontini’s recitatives and the lines endlessly repeated, then exclaims: “How great Mozart is in comparison! Not only with his predecessors, but with his successors, too.” Then he loses himself in reflections on fame, what it means when it is possible for people today to hold up Mozart against him: “Oh, it is tragic! Everything is tragic!” Before reading this libretto he received and answered a letter from friend Standh. At tea, standing by his writing desk, he suddenly sings, “How lovely is my tunic!” I took this to refer to Parsifal, but no, he has ordered a carpet for my room; then he jokingly gets vexed with himself for having told me!
When the children have gone he discusses the similarity between the present world situation and the fall of the Roman Empire, when national virtues also ceased to flourish, Christianity having torn down the national barriers; now the Jews are completing this work. “At best,” says R., “I anticipate a return to a kind of state of Nature, for the Jews will also meet their doom.” The present crisis in England suggests to him that the socialist movement will perhaps start from there, “for we Germans don’t take the initiative in anything.” He tells me that Lecky did not understand Joan of Arc, he just thought she was mad: “A man like that has no place in our church.”
Herr von Perfall sends a telegram asking whether he might send along his painters. R. says in his reply they will be welcome, but premature. To conclude the evening he plays passages from Act I of Parsifal, and in two places I join in, in a duet — with much stumbling, but very great delight. I bid farewell to this day, too, with melancholy: “I should like to die.” R.: “And I to live.” “I could call the 3rd act of Parsifal ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ since she is found in a thornbush.” I: “Löffler would understand that at once.” He tells me that Standhartner was pleased with his clear, straightforward letter.