Friday, March 4:
R. works and is in fine fettle; letter from his friend Champfleury, who is founding a journal on the arts and intends to begin it with a biography of Mehul, because he has constantly heard R. speaking of Mehul. I am to write R.’s reply. In the morning a little poem for Frau Schuré, to save Lordou a letter. In the afternoon to town with Loldi, purchases. In the evening I read Bismarck’s speech on the death penalty, whereupon R.: “They can never think of anything but the protection of the citizen, just as, when they speak against cruelty to animals, they say: Animals are so useful. I say that a human being who has killed another and still wishes to go on living is a very doubtful character; the nobler his motives for the murder, the more keenly should he desire his own death. This is where religion should come in, a priest should go to the murderer, suffer with him the hardships of prison, until he has come to long for death. On the day of the execution, which would be held in secret, the town should be draped in black, the shops closed, bells should toll, and only the judges should watch the sentence being carried out. The death penalty would also provide an ethical factor, reminding the world of the seriousness of life. But people do not want to be serious. No paid priests, but monasteries, places of refuge, whose only task would be to suffer with the criminals.” Then from that to his favorites: “I think I shall concern myself from now on only with Alexander, Bernhard von W[eimar], Luther, Frederick the Great”—and Cromwell, I add. “Yes. To think that stupid people have labeled him a hypocrite, when his whole impetus was his faith; he was someone who felt: I am a man beloved of God, and you, Charles, are a Godforsaken one. Such a man must hold communion with his God.” Telegram of 180 words from Herbeck, claiming that the performance was not as bad as people say.
Saturday, March 5:
Telegram about the second performance of Die Meistersinger in Vienna; “Tremendous reception, countless curtain calls,” etc. R. works, I with the children. After lunch I speak of the dog which Tristan gave to Isolde, and Petitcriu—read aloud by R.—makes a most powerful impression. In the evening Die Walküre. When we subsequently talk of the production of these works, I tell R. he should look up the article on Baireuth in the encyclopedia; R. had mentioned this place as the one he would choose. To our delight we read in the list of buildings of a splendid old opera house! He amused us with a story about his sister Rosalie: when she was playing Gretchen, the maidservant who came to fetch her and always watched the final scene from the pit, began to sob bitterly. A neighbor asked her: “What are you crying for? It’s none of it true.” “Excuse me, but I ought to know—I work with the Mamsell.”