Wednesday, December 28:
The sun smiles down upon us again. But we have our breakfast in bed, with all kinds of remarks about Nap. I, or, rather, about Richard III and the heroes in Henry VI, who, R. says, are much more personal than N., much more personally involved in matters of life and death. He works and goes for a walk in the garden before lunch; but at table I can already see that he is in an ill humor, and the champagne he orders does not cheer him up. I can think of no reason for it, except that his work is absorbing him.
However, we drive to Monreale and delight in the splendid cathedral, feeling ourselves transported back into the spirit of that distant time as we gaze on this ideal representation of it. The return journey is also splendid, even though the sun soon goes down. Unfortunately R. is not feeling very well, today’s menu was not made out correctly, and—God knows through what combination of events—when we are sitting together in the evening and he starts talking about Munich and, among other things, about the coach the King had built at that time, he flies into a rage over the visual arts and artists.
He describes how childishly they—Gedon, Lenbach—expressed their delight in this golden coach, whereas he and his plans were abandoned. They are only a little worse than courtesans, these painters, he says, and adds, “But my mama, too—she is not far off from taking delight in such things as that coach, either.” So well do I know, when he gets so angry and violent and tries to hurt someone or other, that his malaise takes complete possession of him and any reply, however conciliatory, only pours more oil on the flames, that I leave the room for a while. He follows me out, is soon pacified, and explains his all-too-justified grounds for bitterness, and we play whist, after I have made excuses for my attitude toward people by saying that I lack the ability to keep bad experiences constantly in mind; with Nietzsche, for instance, I can think only of his friendly aspects, and the same with Lenbach, Gedon, etc. R. says this is the result of my education, the influence of my father confessor, subsequently a bishop, to whom I owe what he calls my “pious serenity.”
When we are alone, we discuss a few matters; yesterday, over coffee, Jouk. related a comical remark a previous acquaintance of his had made about me; R. feels he is thoroughly compromised by having once been intimate with such people. When I tell him that nothing can compromise him—on the contrary, he is to be admired for having extracted from such trivial personalities something which was at least a comfort to him—we come to the King and his taste for L[ouis] XIV, etc. It is a harsh review of all our acquaintances, and even my father is tacitly considered. By mistake I have put this down for today, but it happened yesterday, while we were waiting for the children; today we only discussed his outburst. His old resentment against Lenbach came back to him, and his odd idea—which increasingly makes us smile—that I should have married a painter!