Saturday, October 29:
A good night, but a mood of seriousness, until an embrace solves everything and Schnappauf's errand evokes the best of high spirits. The latter comes to me and asks in the name of 'the master' whether I have a message for him; I say no. The messenger: 'I think the master meant, for him' - whereupon I laughingly send greetings, which he at once, laughing himself, receives.
He has again been reading Kant, with pleasure on the one hand, but also with regret over some obscurities. At lunch, with our neighbour present, Gambetta's visit to Bismarck is discussed, G.'s curious, Israelite secretiveness and B.'s simple remark that he should leave his card, 'and I will visit him later.' Yet R. believes that both Bismarck and Europe want G., in order to satisfy Rome, which undoubtedly desires to see Ferry removed and hopes at least for unrest and all kinds of concessions from this International.
Over coffee Dr. Hering speaks in favor of non-denominational schools, and with such pedantic obtuseness that R. grows extremely angry, after having several times explained to him that, caught between the Jesuits and the Jews, German Protestantism would be bound to perish. When Dr. H. says he is unable to understand how R. can talk of the decadence of these times, for he himself is a sign of their improvement and elevation, R. says, 'The peaks which rise up are there just to emphasize the decay.'
He withdraws and, during our drive, says he cannot understand why he flew into such a rage, but for him an individual like that is typical of the whole species, and he, R., then asks himself why he ever has anything to do with such creatures. We drive past the 'Krummstab,' which R. notices, and upon which he sees a raven sitting! When we return home, we see Fidi playing billiards with Ferdi, and when Fidi misses a ball, he whistles, 'And though a cloud may now obscure it,' which amuses R. greatly, and he continues, 'The ball still stands upon the green.'
In the evening some of Apel's ghost stories, including Der Totentanz, which we enjoy very much, though it is somewhat far-fetched. Then R. plays something for me from Boieldieu's Jean de Paris, which he says is the troubadour's song - it seems a little monotonous, for all its French charm - something which, it seems, no longer exists in France, either.