Monday, March 15:
Prevented from writing every day, so I will summarize. On the 29th we began, at my suggestion, to read Faust, planning to read it all through. On Sunday we get as far as the appearance of the poodle. If yesterday we were once again battered by Shakespeare’s elemental force, Goethe’s mild genius today has a deeply moving effect; it is like a call from one’s homeland, and to hear it conveyed by R.’s voice, the dedication, the proclamation of the resurrection, the poet’s words, this dissolves all constraining bonds, and what a twin might tell of the brother from whom he is separated, thus he speaks to us of Goethe. My gratitude knows no bounds, and again and again, overwhelmed, I throw myself into his arms. During the reading he is particularly captivated by the dramatic dexterity of the introduction, Wagner’s interruption, Mephisto’s two entrances, though one thing does seem to him to be missing, namely, a longing for M.’s return, which would show Faust ready to conclude the pact.
[Added three pages later: “Note on the reading of Faust: R. feels that most of the passages from after the scene with Wagner up to Faust’s seizing of the phial, interpolated by Goethe, hinder the dramatic development, and the suddenness of his agreement to Mephisto’s proposal precludes any ‘intimate experience.’”]
On Monday drive to the Palazzo Reale, R. enjoys the sightseeing, though he remarks on the utterly monotonous way in which such palaces are built, room after room, all the same, a senseless madness. (I like the portrait of an old woman by Ravesteijn, a painter unknown to me.) Then we go to look at the triumphal arch; R. expresses his repugnance at inspecting such things through lorgnettes; thinking of a Roman triumphal arch and imagining to oneself the procession of the conqueror is quite a different matter, he says, from admiring singly the lines of some dead and useless object. Laughing, we go on with Faust, up to the scene with the witch.
On Tuesday nothing of note; a visit from the Ouroussoffs in the evening. R. very friendly, he plays the Russian national anthem, the Kaisermarsch, and, linking onto that, the Marseillaise, which he sings. (When after the Kaisermarsch he plays the M., it strikes me how unreligious, unsacred, the French song sounds in comparison with his song; it is certainly powerful and full of energy, but not great, not aristocratic, and, to our ears, almost absurd when one considers that the feroces soldats who are called upon to mugir [bellow] are the Prussians of Goethe’s Campaign in France!)
On Wednesday morning, in glorious weather, R. drives into town in an open carrozzella; when I hear him returning (the bell rings), I go onto the terrace in my dress for the sitting, and R. is pleased by this rose-colored greeting: no other opera composer has ever had such a reception, he says! Walk in the garden, ever-recurring delight in our house, which R. calls Posilipo II.
In the evening we dine at Prof. Schron’s house with Prof. Holtzendorff and the Countesses Arnim (with son) and Schulenburg; both R. and I are struck by the lack of dignity in the suffering of these persecuted people. Later in the evening Frau Schwab appears as well, giving rise to much exhilarating fun! But Naples is lovely in the evening, when the lights are lit.
Thursday: R. tired after last night’s “entertainment”; he can no longer stand up to such things. He writes to friend Feustel, saying that he wishes to stay here beyond the end of May. We drive out to Pozzuoli and the straight road through the grotto, to show it to Lusch. We bring our friend Joukowsky, whose presence R. finds very congenial, back home with us, and when J. talks of the need to economize, R. takes two sous from his pocket and presses them solicitously into his hand, saying he must help him out!
In the evening he feels very tired, and the sudden arrival of our friend Gersdorff depresses him, since the poor man has returned even more sorrowful than he departed; R. jokes at first about his life in the catacombs “beneath the baths of Caracalla,” asking whether he read newspapers there, but then he has an outburst of annoyance at the unhappy situation in which our poor friend has landed himself. Then R. complains to me about our friends, saying how little joy they bring him.
Friday: Since the dinner R. has not enjoyed a good night, and in consequence he is depressed, he does not look well, I should like to have him entirely to myself, and I reproach myself for not being able to arrange this. Yesterday he received a letter from friend Wolzogen regarding the concerts; R. replies today, the letter has upset him; he will not hear of concerts with charges for admittance and is annoyed at the idea of trying to make progress by such means, as if he has not already given concerts enough and shown what he can do, as if the performances had never been! We spend the afternoon on the terrace, and it does us good. But in the evening R.’s depression returns, and not even Pepino, who comes to the house with the Wohrmann family, can rouse R. with his splendid singing. Contact with other people is always embarrassing for R.; he finds it difficult to overcome certain impressions, and this evening he received some from Gers. [?] which led to a remark about men’s craving for pleasure. But when they have all left and we are alone with the two girls, he is glad to be with us, and I very much hope he will keep reducing the number of social occasions, which have an adverse effect on him. “I never find my equal at such gatherings,” he says.