Saturday, December 28:
R. had a bad night; the animated discussion about the Jews was a strain on him. He praises Rubinstein’s manner and serious outlook, “but he should keep his mouth shut about the Jews, as I once said of Pohl about his wife.”
At lunch our Nibelungen copyist with his young wife, telling us dismal things about Mannheim - if only these good people would leave us in peace in our Wahnfried, not keep telling us about the outside world, which we wish so much to forget! R. tells me of a dream he had during the night from Thursday to Friday, which until now he preferred not to mention to me: he entered the town as if coming from the Fantaisie, intending to come to us, but on the way met Seidl, wearing a mourning band and accompanied by a large crowd; Seidl told him it was a funeral and attempted to hold him back; R., struggling to force his way through, exclaimed furiously, “It concerns me most of all.” Once more I see how my thoughts are turned into R.'s dreams: I prayed fervently for a blessed death, and he receives the vision! ...
In the evening we are alone and enjoy being so; Eva reads to us the saga of the trumpeter’s castle, which R. had often inquired about without being able to find it, and which means much to me because my brother once lived in the trumpeter’s castle. When the children have left, I remain alone with R., and the hours flow past in peaceful happiness until, in the hour of parting, love’s bliss floods us with its rays!
Notes
The overwhelming impression which has been dominating my thoughts for days made me incapable of reporting well, but I did not wish to break the thread of my description; hence this appendix to the various days:
Tuesday, December 24:
After my morning’s work (distributing presents) I sink down somewhat wearily into my chair, and in my usual way of restoring myself by taking up a book at random, I alight on Leopardi’s poem “To Aspasia”; his description of beauty and the effect it has on him, Leopardi, brings my thoughts straight back to R., who recently said that beauty means little to him when no soulful gaze shines through it - that is the peculiar thing about it. How different from others is R. in all things! Immersed in these reflections, I saw his cherished image within my soul and returned to my work refreshed.
R. laughs over his illness, says it is overproduction (the Emperor’s word for the troubles of German industry). The days are longer by a cock’s crow - this expression pleases R. At lunch yesterday he suddenly quoted MacMahon’s words, “Des cuirassiers, il n’y en a plus” [“There are no longer any cuirassiers”], and he goes on, “Des Allemands [Germans], il n’y en a plus!”
Wednesday, December 25:
The presents R. piled up in my room: the Marajah - the swan dress - the Roxane - the enamel costume - the Jardiniere, five in all, each more beautiful than the last. A fan of eagle’s down. A bouquet, which in the evening adorns his podium - silk stockings - shoes for each dress, all of it thought out, ordered, and obtained by him! . . . This for the appearance; for the pleasures of reality, however: the orchestral sketches of Das Liebesverbot and Die Walküre (since the first page was rather smudged, he wrote it out again), the Prelude to Parsifal! . . . Before the rehearsal, R. had difficulties: all the servants were away (Christmas Day) and could not help. Miss Murchison gone to church, having her furs carried there and back, so R., Lusch, Fidi, and Seidl had to arrange the chairs themselves! . . . When R. in great annoyance, particularly with Miss Murchison and the transport of her furs, is telling me all about it, he exclaims, “Peter, my fan!”, which then causes the greatest merriment amid all the vexation. Another characteristic episode also amuses us: when, after completing his report, he “furiously” looks to see what the servants are doing, he catches sight of Rausch bringing in a barrel of beer: “Yes, beer!” R. cries out in a rage, “Beer! As long as you’ve got your beer!” A few moments later Georg comes in with a glass of beer on a tray: “The master called for some beer?” Behind all that rage Rausch saw nothing except thirst and a desire for beer!
Before the concert begins, R. says a few words, he explains the significance of the day, and then the Overture. Before the Idyll he asks me loudly whether he should read the poem; with a movement of my head I beg him not to. Before Egmont he says, “In honor of the army, since Egmont was beheaded by soldiers.” High-spirited remarks tumble from his lips, and his eyes radiate enthusiasm. His inspiration transforms all the poor spirits assembled there as if by magic, and it is as if we were taking part in an act of creation! More than the works themselves, it is the way in which he performed them that lingers in my memory. R. tells me how blissful the members of the orchestra had been, how transfigured, when he taught them at rehearsal how to play the minuet and trio of the symphony.
He had first of all intended to play the Freischütz Overture but later abandoned the idea, and we agree that, like everything else, this was the right decision, for it would not have been in keeping with the mood.
Parsifal Prelude: Ecce homo! . . .
Thursday, December 26:
I will note down only one extra thing for today: Lt. Col. Sch[effer] tells us that, if one has not called on a citizen here, and then at some encounter wishes to clink glasses with him, he will pull his glass away. R. says: “That is perhaps not a bad characteristic of the Germans, bourgeois pride. A Jew would clink glasses with you at once, whether you have called on him or not. But everything in our country now looks so petty and ridiculous.”
Friday, December 27:
R. tells me he has looked through the Mendelssohn overtures, which I put among his Christmas presents; the Calm Sea pleases him, he was a fine musician. In the evening we discuss the trait in Hoffmann’s character which led him to seek refuge in the tavern after insipid, so-called intellectual gatherings, and when I say I can understand it, R. reads to us the passage about Ludwig Devrient in his essay Actors and Singers. R. gets indignant about the customs regulations, that is, about the irresponsible way in which Bismarck says, “I made a mistake, now we must do it differently,” yet retains the same people and still listens to their advice. He says of Beethoven’s symphonies: “There are not many such works, and if anybody put an orchestra at my disposal, I should soon be finished with it, for the works are few.” When Herr Rubinstein says the Greeks did not recognize blue, R. says: “Or, rather, where we see only a single color, they saw all sorts of nuances - they saw much more than we do.” We had some squabbling among the servants, which R. tried to smooth out himself, but in vain. When I then persuade the cook to beg his pardon, R. says to me: “Oh, she is a genius, she is like an animal, won’t listen to reason. She’s just as much a genius as Beethoven.”