Saturday, December 17:
People arriving late from Catania make a noise, and R. gets out of bed and calls for quiet. He took a bath in the morning and afterward suffered another chest spasm. He lies down in bed, we have breakfast, and he is soon so much recovered that he can embark on a detailed discussion of the passage in Kant concerning “seeds.” “I can very easily imagine how a Laplander, for instance, evolves out of a Norman, however far-fetched it sounds, and this idea opens many doors. The seeds of the widest variety are in Nature itself; for example, man’s carnivorous tendencies are indicated by his canine teeth, and it all depends on the way things evolve. In Germany everything is in the process of dying out, for me a dismal realization, since I am addressing myself to the still-existent seeds. But one thing is certain: races are done for, and all that can now make an impact is, as I have ventured to express it, the blood of Christ.”
He then talks of the revolution which could be brought about by a manufacturer in Carlyle’s sense, and of emigration to the Boers. He says he would like to know something about what Herr v. Weber said to Stein on that subject. “But,” he says in connection with the first topic, “it is unthinkable that such a character should emerge, all the sources have dried up,” and, on the second, “But the moment one tries to deal with the practical aspects, it all becomes foolish and petty.”
When I say that this theory of seeds which need to be cultivated is a comforting one, and that I can see from a character such as Boni’s what successes can be achieved by cultivating the good in it, he says, “Oh, yes, indeed!” He works, having read Kant, and again speaks of it at lunch: “One never regrets communing with a significant mind, and one should in fact occupy oneself only with such original beings.” He then comes back to the theory and says that the Germans are finished. Then I tell him of the pleasure it gave me today to do justice to Ariosto, hitherto so alien to us; in this I was helped by a quotation in Sismondi and his clever use of it, about the giant who forgot that he was dead and continued to wage a battle. This amuses R. greatly, and he says one should not allow oneself to be deterred by this and that, but should seek, “in the original language, I willingly concede,” to come closer to so great a name.
Letters at coffee time: a very nice one from Herr Vogl about Tristan (enclosed in Diaries: “Königsberg did not shame your miraculous work!”), then another reminder “with good wishes.” We joke about the recognition now coming to R. from all sides. R. goes for a drive with the children but returns dissatisfied; it rained, Favorita was closed, and at the Villa Ranghibile, where he wanted to show them the splendid fig tree, his vexation over the guide brought on another chest spasm. Very sweetly he tells me it was all because I was not with them that they had no luck. (My cough kept me at home, I played the piano score.) R. works, and we spend the evening as quietly as possible.
Bonus reads to us an article by Dr. Herrig about theaters, which makes very sensible mention of the building in Bayreuth. R. says he does not know what is meant by the “people” for whom drama is supposed to exist; he knows nothing about “people” - what seems to be in everyone’s mind are the 30,000 Athenians, and Greek drama had its chorus, but few individuals. One cannot say that a Shakespeare play is for “the people” - it was just created for the kind of stage on which one viewed the actors from all sides. He feels his remarks about a performance of Faust probably led Herrig to imagine something like this. The Albert Hall, with its audience of 10,000, he continues, does not entitle one to say that “the English people” was there. “I know no ‘people,’ ” he exclaims, “they must have created one of their own in Berlin.” “In such a large space as the Albert Hall the orchestra ought to be in the middle, and only things like the last movement of the C minor Symphony played there.”
Rub. reminds us that today is Beethoven’s birthday, and that leads me to recall that R. recently sang the theme of the Leonore Overtures and said to me, “Only once does he introduce it in this passionate way, and then - quite correctly for the overture style - with an accompaniment in which there is something downright pedantic, and for us vexing.” We hear from Lusch that my father’s condition alternates between apathy and irritability. “It must be particularly painful to him,” R. says, “that he is completely ignored even in Paris, whereas my things, which are not at all suitable for concerts, are being played - and above all in Paris. Both time and place have let him down.” At lunch I talk about The Arabian Nights, which I am reading with Fidi, and R. speaks with particular warmth of Harun al-Raschid, “that good, humorous, greathearted ruler”; on the other hand, he says, the stories of Sindbad have never interested him. The fact that 416 Israelites died in the fire does not increase R.’s concern over the disaster.