Saturday, May 10:
Raging storm; R. up all night.
His sleep disturbed; he dreamed that I went to Chemnitz for a christening, having promised it to Lulu; he, beside himself, exclaims about his sister, “What do they need to have children for?!” He also had another disturbing dream about Chemnitz. He asks me whether I shall go on being nice to him when he is always complaining!
But as usual he soon overcomes his disquiet, and our morning conversation covers all sorts of things, among them the fact that Cromwell had already embarked for America when Charles I, “the donkey,” stopped it. R. works on his article. Our friends at one o’clock; friend Wolzogen believes he has found the music critic in a certain Herr Scheffer from Berlin, who in an article on singing draws a parallel between Schnorr and Niemann. In the evening R. asks me how he can possibly permit a critique of Niemann in the Blätter after all there has been between them. That is the curse of a situation in which obligations are involved, he says; it means one can no longer tell the truth. In his “Retrospect” he had been reserved about Niemann’s achievements, but he had also not caused offense.
Regarding the concerts, R. suggests putting advertisements in the newspapers, inviting young players to come along, for he has no intention of attracting players here with heavy fees. If nobody responds, well and good - all he can say is, “Here I am.” R. goes for a walk. At the end of the day the weather becomes very fine; R. said he was curious to see whether the sun would not come out at last on the “Sabbath,” composed by Meyerbeer, and out it came!
In the evening we look through two little French books, about China and Brazil. The etchings interest R. very much; the slim girl from Lima reminds him of Calderon, and he says, “They could play Calderon at any time.” The Chinese actors he also finds very pleasing.
Then we play something from Parsifal; I ask him whether he is not pleased with all his spiritual children; the best time is the process of creating, he says, the peculiar state of fervor in which one works. Of Tristan he says it will probably remain a sort of mystical pit, giving pleasure to individuals, but its performance presents too many difficulties; fascinating people are imperative for it. We finish the evening in chat, reminiscences of Frankfurt (Lohengrin), Vienna, etc. He shows me the photograph of the Crown Prince in the appendix to the report of the General Staff, and sighs: “That as our next emperor!” Of the present one he says, “No wine, no—” [The foregoing sentence was obliterated in ink by an unknown hand.] His coming here was an act of courtesy, he says, a chivalrous gesture toward Frau v. Schleinitz (he makes a gesture, clicks his heels, and snorts: “A national festival,” exactly like the Emperor). When I say laughingly that our King is completely different, he says, “Yes, the exact opposite - he does nothing out of chivalry.” Jokingly he recalls that two emperors have supported him out of courtesy (N[apoleon] III for Princess Metternich, Wilhelm I for Mimi).