Saturday, September 25:
R. again had a bad night; having to rise early for my father's departure, then the hasty final corrections to his article, all this puts him out of humor. All the same, he gaily brings me, "Tasso to the Princess," the ruled score, 334 pages. He also reads Schopenhauer to me, on the artist's imitation of Nature, and when I start to talk about his article, he expresses the wish that the B. Blätter might gradually take a different path, and that the contributors, modeling themselves on this article, might proclaim their intention of doing battle on all fronts, not merely for the Society of P.'s, but as a public periodical.
Regarding the passage in Schopenhauer on Gothic art, I tell him that it seems to me unjust to judge this only from its outward aspect; it emerged out of the jumble of houses in medieval times, and the Gothic builders erected their churches outward from the inside. He agrees with me and in the evening says that I really should write something for the B. Bl. on Gothic art!
My father's character gives rise to many observations between us, and indeed not cheerful ones, since we are feeling a little tired. However, we go for a walk in the afternoon and again stray onto the stubble fields, which is hard going for us, but it does not prevent our taking pleasure in many things; for example, R. suddenly points to a peasant pushing his barrow across the sun-drenched horizon: "A picture of antiquity," he exclaims. And all the time talking about Schopenhauer, then about the Etruscans, who, R. declares, must have resembled the Indians, a gentle, cultured people, honored in fabled stories by the Greeks.
Talking of architecture, he says palaces make no impression on him, since they consist of two stories of openwork, and two rows of windows, one above the other, rob space of its ideality; he would wish to see a fine window once and once only; but he has nothing against Gothic, castlelike palaces, he says, which allow one to imagine defending warriors. It is the Renaissance palaces which leave him unmoved. Thought of Fidi, who is now in Orvieto, and his talent for architecture; R. feels one should not allow this too much nourishment, as happened with my father's virtuosity, otherwise the other aspects would be too much neglected.
He talks of electricity and hopes to see it used on the railroads, to reduce the number of coal workers. A vegetarian menu earns his disapproval: "There is no point in all this playing about, ignoring religion." I forget what in a recent conversation led me to make the remark, "There is no such thing as a depraved artist." Whereupon R.: "No, he might perhaps look that way and be misunderstood by many people, but depravity begins with artificiality, hypocrisy, and an artist is genuine." He then quotes the Indian proverb, "It is not badness which is bad, but mediocrity," etc.