Tuesday, May 6:
R. dreamed that I came to show myself to him in a mauve dress. He is so tired that he falls asleep for half an hour in his bath. In the morning he works enjoyably on his article. I clear away letters and am touched by three from him to me, which I reread, one from the year ’64 (Nov.), one from the year ’67, and one from the year 1872 (from Bayreuth). All the struggles, all the sufferings and love rise up before me, recalled by these cherished lines.
This morning a letter arrived from the King - he does not mention with a single word the postponement of the performances or the concerts. The letter makes a pleasant impression on R., as does a letter from Heckel in Mannheim, enclosing one from Herr Schön; this gentleman from Worms wants to make an annual contribution to the school and inquires about the situation in a serious, understanding manner. R. reads the letters to us over lunch. He takes a long nap in the afternoon, and then we both go out into the garden and the palace gardens; the air is springlike - at last! - and though he has first to deal with all sorts of worldly nuisances (bricklayers, fitters, etc., dogs breaking in everywhere), lively spirits gain the upper hand.
He takes from his waistcoat pocket the enclosed piece of paper, saying it cannot be understood out of context; but I ask him for it, and he explains to me something of its connection with his present work. Enclosed is a piece of paper bearing in Wagner’s handwriting the words: “2 lives. Undistinguished - deep - religion. / Celebrated - great - art.” The lines are bracketed together, and beside them is written: “tragic.” Reverting to life’s absurdities, I amuse him by saying that only too often do I find myself singing Figaro’s “Of all else I say nothing” in connection with the many things I have not told him.
In the evening we remain by ourselves; R. plays the duet from Medea between the heroine and Creon, her pleading and his harshness; there are certainly some fine things in it, such as the appeal to the gods, but it leaves us quite cold. R. says, “I can’t bear these raging women,” and, “I find such arithmetical drama and such arithmetical music repulsive.” I am reminded of the diatribes in Rameau’s Nephew and feel how pale all this so-called dramatic art is in comparison with a single Weber melody. “And yet,” says R., “there is something in it which completely eluded such donkeys as Marschner - a sense of form.” We finish the study of Burns and agree that, though some of the repetitions are wearisome and much of it looks like unnecessary preaching, it always gives evidence of a deep and remarkable mind; the parallels between Burns and Byron, for example, and the assertion that both of them, though true poets, were not poets enough to mold their lives to their poetic calling. Both these points are significant, and in connection with them we talk about the artist’s relationship to life. We are in fine spirits as we take leave of this day, which bears the promise of spring.