Sunday, February 4:
R. tells me the nice dream he had: he was with Schopenhauer, who was extraordinarily cheerful and friendly (and completely white, causing R. to ask himself, "Who would ever think that this is the great philosopher?"). Then R. drew Schopenhauer's attention to a flock of nightingales, but Schopenhauer had already noticed them.
Then R. comes back to Nietzsche, observes that the one photograph is enough to show what a fop he is, and declares him to be a complete nonentity, a true example of the inability to see. Then R. goes on to Les Maîtres mosaïstes and observes that he finds such fictional psychological subtleties impossible to accept; legends have attuned him to thinking on far broader lines.
Toward 1 o'clock he reads to me his very detailed letter to Glasenapp. At lunch R. relates what an impression of madness the Galop infernal made on him when he heard it in the Grand Opéra in Paris. Sirocco; R. does not go out. We are expecting Levi, who arrives toward 4 o'clock, most welcome to all of us. The evening passes in chat; "Harlequin, thou must perish" is played, and Levi tells us that Nietzsche recommended to him a "young Mozart," actually a thoroughly incompetent musician! This gives us food for thought! R. says to me eventually that Nietzsche has no ideas of his own, no blood of his own; it is all foreign blood which has been poured into him. (R. writes an addition to my letter to Malwida.)
[Added at the bottom of the page: "Note to one of the foregoing days: I expressed my astonishment over the poem Lenore and its popularity, and R. says, 'Well, of course, it is a wretched poem, rustic and clerical poetry.'"]