Sunday, July 25:
R. slept so soundly that he did not notice an earth tremor which I and others in the household felt very strongly.
Böcklin’s surprising view of Lenbach forms part of our breakfast conversation. Lengthy dictation, conclusion of the much-loved work.
In the afternoon to the beach; R. tries to swim, but he finds it a great strain, and we spend a tired and gloomy evening, which even the conclusion of Rheingold cannot enliven for me. Yesterday R. exclaimed to me, “Brahms is advertising in the newspapers for an opera libretto; I have described my views on composition in the Blätter, and now he thinks he has got a recipe.”
A portrait of the Frenchman Daudet in the I. Z. does not please him on account of the wild hair; he observes that even in the most intelligent of Frenchmen there is something, some obtuseness, which cannot be overcome.
And when Lusch tells us that even the I. Z. is showing hostility to our cause, R. says: “Like everyone else; and then I am supposed to rejoice when somebody for some reason or other says something nice about me! This paper wants to stay on good terms with everybody, and so with us, too.”
At lunch he talked about Wallenstein; he said jokingly to Lulu that she probably wished she could meet a young man like that, and then adds with a laugh: “Curious that the young German is an Italian.”