Thursday, January 5:
R. had a good night, and the familiar gay singing of the child—boy or girl—at 6 o’clock in the morning again delights him. We have a cheerful breakfast in the conservatory, unfortunately amid the stares of strangers, but that does not embarrass us. The street calls keep us amused, and the day starts in good spirits. R. works, goes for a walk in the garden before lunch, and when he returns and sees me waiting to go to table with him, he exclaims, “Mamsell Glorious!” At lunch he talks about the changes of fortune brought about by Napoleon’s divorce, as described in Mme de Rémusat’s memoirs, and says he cannot understand why this interesting subject has not been turned into a play. He takes quite a long rest after lunch, and then we drive, he and I, via the English Gardens to the Favorita. When I tell him I have just been thinking of Parsifal and am pleased that this last work of his is also his masterpiece, he replies, or rather interrupts me very excitedly, “No, no, I was telling myself today that it is quite remarkable that I held this work back for my fullest maturity; I know what I know and what is in it; and the new school, Wolzogen and the others, can take their lead from it.” He then hints at, rather than expresses, the content of this work, “salvation to the savior”—and we are silent after he has added, “Good that we are alone.” Then he suddenly mentions Brandt, saying very earnestly, “Oh, that this profoundly loyal person—for that he was to me—had to die!” And he recalls all his remarkable talents. I tell him that I have written to Frau Brandt, promising that he would write to her son. We drive farther on, and a kind God permits me to take such delight in the countryside that my gloomy thoughts disperse like clouds. He is pleased with the drive and orders the coachman to take us to the sea; we get out and walk on the quay near the railroad station. The view is quite wonderful, and R., after asking me what I find so beautiful about it, begins to enjoy it, too. And in gentle, indeed uplifted spirits, we return home. He goes to his work, completes two pages today, and joins us at table, somewhat excited but in cheerful mood. Lenbach’s wonderful sketch of my father leads to reflections; when we mention that L. has never done such a picture of R., he says, “On the one hand I am too much of a Philistine, on the other, perhaps too intellectual,” and he goes on to observe that this sketch, splendid and a good likeness though it is, nevertheless reflects only a single instant, an action, not complete repose; in his opinion a portrait should show this, and he is glad that the photograph of him—on which the engraving is based—exists. This is how he would like to look. He then talks about the visual arts and expresses his hope to Jouk. that he will understand what he means by this—not painting, which, as he very well knows, comes closest to his own art (the Greeks, for example, knew nothing about it), but architecturally decorative trivialities such as the saltcellar of Benvenuto Cellini, etc. In my perception of the world, etc., such things seem utterly despicable. He then talks about his instrumentation, compares it with painting techniques, then relates atrocities committed by the Russian government and declares that what is best in the nation can certainly be found among the nihilists; in the higher spheres everything is rotten and decayed. We then begin Henry IV, Part II; when he has to skip several passages, he complains about having to read it aloud in front of “womenfolk.” Later I jokingly point this out, but he cannot remember having said it—as so often, his remarks are the involuntary expression of his thoughts, a mere indication of his feelings of unease. Rub. plays Weber’s Sonata in A-flat major and his “Polonaise,” which again make R. feel that he is “no musician”; despite some lovely passages, the sonata reminds him of Kalkbrenner, and he finds its stiffness of form and applause-seeking brilliance distasteful; he says this piano literature shows not the slightest trace of Beethoven’s influence. He does not listen to the “Polonaise,” but enjoys the glorious moonlight and the mild air; we go into the conservatory and enjoy the delights of Nature. When the Tristan night and the Walküre night are mentioned, he says that in neither case was he thinking of moonlight, but just of warm summer nights, if only for the reason that on stage the moon looks ridiculous. Many thoughts of travel! From here we should go on to make the acquaintance of Athens and the Ionian islands; but he says Constantinople does not interest him at all, neither its founding nor its predominance means a thing to him.