Sunday, July 27:
Heavy thunderstorm during the night, which kept us awake, and today it is wet and cold. R. works, I have to lie down, for my fatigue literally forbids me to stay up. But I go downstairs in the evening.
R. has been to Angermann’s with Siegfried and laughed heartily to see Fidi being served in a glass of his own, marked “Herr Siegfried Wagner.” In the evening whist and perusal of modern operas, Armin, Folkunger, Königin von Saba; it turns out that the Israelite’s work is after all the best, musically more refined; but one cannot take any of these things seriously. The libretto of Armin, with its repulsive and superficial patriotism, aimed merely at effect, is truly horrifying.
(Prof. Rühlmann, son of the trombonist in R.’s orchestra, promises to send the manuscript of Iphigenie en Aulide.)