Wednesday, November 20:
R. had a good night, and, returning to yesterday’s conversation and to an earlier proposal, he says he will draw up lists of themes for the Blätter and give a rough outline of his ideas on them, and the other contributors can then fill them out; for example, on the uselessness of the music schools, demonstrated by the poor published editions, poor arrangements, the decline of military bands. “But the whole trouble is,” R. observes, “to whom is one speaking?” “A school ought to be founded here for the preservation of my works, for I have created a new style.” But the next thought is always: Who will teach in it?
Fine weather. R. has done some work, after first reading Lecky as usual; he imparts to me some excerpts from this very stimulating book; today he spoke with horror about the territory of the Pontine Marshes (yesterday my Greek lesson caused him to expatiate on this subject, in his inimitable way). Then about my father: R. says he would prefer to see him writing symphonies than a Via crucis or a Seven Sacraments (“He should give us Hell as the first sacrament”). Much about my mother and father; all the noble stature of R.’s noble outlook is conveyed in his opinion of my father’s attitude toward Lola Montez, and his own repugnance toward it. “The girl likes you,” my father said to him at the time, “you are the only man who doesn’t pay court to her.” “I didn’t even notice her,” R. said. And he exclaims, “To wound another heart for the sake of so cold a relationship!”
He goes for a walk, far, far beyond the Students’ Wood, and returns home via the powder magazine; he is tired, in no mood for work: “I shall finish this act, too, one day.” “I have no fears about that!” say I, laughing.
In the evening a small party, a singer, Frl. Lango, sings all kinds of things, not exactly to our edification. But one thing remains from such disruptions: the pleasure of being alone together again. Since we feel this pleasure particularly keenly today, R. talks about his Starnberg poem. “That gives the proper picture,” he says, “I felt the need to turn it into a picture, to give it a poetic form.” “We ought to print it,” he adds in his kind, ironic, joking way. From this he goes on to Tristan and says in the second act he wanted to do just that, to describe happiness, the feeling that there are no more barriers and all else is forgotten, and the desire to perpetuate this condition through death. “How lovely it is that this happiness of total oblivion can only be felt by two alone!” he says, and with these words we go off to sleep.
Thursday, November 21:
A curiously restless day; the night was also somewhat disturbed for R., but he does some work. Then an annoying though comical intermezzo with the amateur society, followed by a visit from Herr Josef Rubinstein, who seems exactly the same as he was years ago, that is to say, unmistakably ill! The eventful day is crowned by two young men from Nürnberg, who sing things from Tannhäuser more or less as Lauermann would have sung them. But one memory remains: the Idyll, which Herr R. played quite nicely in his own very good arrangement.
Again, however, R. exclaims, “I won’t leave a single person behind who understands my tempo!” He then tells me he is proud of the Idyll, it gave him great pleasure today, and so did the children, who were listening. After laughing at several curious things that happened during the day, R. says, “There is no one, not a single soul, whose visit we really look forward to: we are very much alone.”