Wednesday, February 9:
The gale tears open our window during the night; we awake, both of us spring out of bed. I fear for R., but he returns gaily to his bed, saying, “The storm was so violent that it pulled off my compresses,” and, laughing, we go to sleep again.
When he gets up after breakfast, he says orchestrating is no fun; he prefers writing. Orchestrating is just arranging. When we come together again at lunch, he complains about his fingers. I tell him how sorry I am to see a person with his temperament exposed to such petty torments, and he says, “It is the temperament which produces them.” We talk of Wolz.’s manner, of his eyebrows, which give one the feeling that he could turn the world upside down. “And I, who am energy personified, have none at all,” R. adds, in such a humorous tone of voice that we all burst out laughing. [The words from “We talk of Wolz.’s manner” to this point were obliterated in ink by an unknown hand.]
Over coffee there is talk of starvation in Russia; R. says he feels like writing to the Grand Duke, the heir to the throne, suggesting that they transfer the capital to Odessa, but princes who would do such a thing no longer exist, he says; whatever happens will come about through suffering, through the people, and piecemeal. At the same time there is praise for France, which, since it has done away with religion, has now banished its ghosts as well.
We go for a walk in the palace gardens: “The worst weather thou find’st will show thee—” “that you, Richard, are with Cosima,” I finish. “That would be nice,” I suddenly hear him say. “What?” “I can’t say just now,” and then: “If one melody were to accompany another, the first one would disappear, and its accompaniment be turned by the cellos into the main melody, and so on alternately. I have got something of that sort in the Kaisermarsch.” He adds, “The Kaisermarsch is probably the nicest of my instrumental compositions; it shows what one can still place beside Beethoven.” Of Carlyle he says how right he was to describe the French Revolution as “an urge to face up to truths.” Boni’s ball gown delights him.
In the evening we chat together about all sorts of things, my father, the Israelites, and finally [Wilhelmine] Schröder-Devrient. Jouk. asked whether she was beautiful. R.: “How shall I reply to that? Everything about her was life, soul, warmth, and an expression of delight such as I have otherwise seen only in Cosima. A face easily expresses suffering, but true delight—I once saw such an expression in Grisi, when she uttered the word gioia [joy], and there was something of it in Judith.” Of the latter he said, “At that time, in 1876, I found her natural warmth very pleasant in contrast to all the prevailing stiffness.” He says once again that he is longing to do some instrumental compositions, adding that it was a similar mood which gave rise to Tristan. He enjoys writing, but feels it will be some time before he writes another text: “I have posed enough riddles,” he adds.