Thursday, March 25:
Letters from Bayreuth; friend Wolz. wants after all to present concerts in Bayreuth under Hans's direction this summer. R. very saddened by his friends, even the best of them; says, "I am in fact just in the way, without me everything would be all right." I have the task of conveying his "no" to our friend. "Oh," says R., "if only I could find myself a pleasant wilderness!" He almost decides to drop the school idea entirely and to consider presenting Parsifal with the Munich company, on condition that the King appoint another opera director, perhaps Herr v. Bürkel.
In the afternoon Frau Lucca appears with Cossa, the poet, to invite R. on behalf of the syndic of Rome to attend the performance of Lohengrin there. Frau Lucca imprudently noisy, but the poet listens intelligently to R.'s expatiations, which grow more and more heated with the urgings of this turbulent woman. Great concern over R.'s allowing himself to be goaded by such nonsense. They leave at last, R. tries to sleep but cannot. He comes out onto the terrace and after some grumbling calms down. I want to cancel the carriage, but he says he wishes to go to the church to hear the Miserere.
Long drive to the Conservatoire. "The moon is flirting with Vesuvius." Arrive in a splendid courtyard along a narrow alley, then enter a lovely vaulted chapel. Received by the charming Duchess of Bagnara; waiting, psalms, worshipers passing in and out, R. is led off by the Duke and the other gentlemen from the Conservatoire, since the service still has an hour to run. He returns, and in the darkness the choir begins to sing.
"What an awesomely noble impression the music makes!" says R.; then, "This is true music, which makes everything else look like child's play." The work, by Leo, rears up like a mighty cathedral, severe in outline, noble and essential; every modulation of tremendous effect, since dictated by the logic of the part writing. The performance suffers because of the pauses the conductor feels impelled to make in the interests of security. But the boys' voices sound touchingly naive. We think of Parsifal. Afterward R. accompanies the delightful Duchess, who, surrounded by her lovely children, pleases him immensely, while the friendly Duke escorts me to our carriage. We drive through a tumultuous crowd; people hiss at us; moonlight, the houses like palaces from The Arabian Nights.
We have supper at Dreher's, where the vulgar gaping makes us somewhat uncomfortable but does not spoil our good mood. Long after our return home, still talking with R. about this church music, art of the noblest, most impersonal kind.