Wednesday, November 15:
R. got up once, and for quite a long time, and my night was very agitated. But R. is well in the morning; he talks first of all about Fidi’s profile, which is becoming so handsome. I say like his, but he thinks no, he has got his figure. At breakfast we are amused by an article by Herr Schaffer, waxing enthusiastic about Frau R[eicher]-Kindermann [enclosed in Diaries; see notes]. R. immediately decides to dictate to me a letter to Herr Schaffer. Before that he asked himself how the Jews had ever come to assume such importance in our country, where there are still some tough and talented tribes to be found! R. answers himself: Because of the Old Testament, because we have accepted it. Toward one o’clock R. goes out for a while, is not pleased, however, since it is raining heavily. Venetian history, which I am reading with the children, provides the basis for our conversation. But the news of the impending arrival of the Duke of Bordeaux causes some alarm, since this is bound to mean some alterations in the palazzo. The expected arrival of my father and of Joukowsky also keeps us busy. Toward four o’clock we go out, R., Fidi, and I; it cheers R. up to stroll through the arcades, and our short stop at Lavena’s he also finds entertaining. There his attention is caught by a handsome tomcat, who sits motionless on the sweets counter watching the movement made by the gas flame on the ceiling. R. then talks about the goats he has just seen mentioned in the history of Persia - how perfect such an animal is! “And then to turn it into a human being! It is a step backward, so to speak: how ugly the ape is, until the stage of genius is reached!” We ride home through the narrow canals, Fidi rows and calls while Luigi prompts him - “like Mephisto the astrologer,” says R.; but it makes us laugh heartily to see that, when it really matters, Luigi always calls out himself. In the evening we discuss Gobineau’s life, then R. tells me some things about Persian history, among others the Persian historian’s admission that it contains many lies, and only God can know the real truth about it. Later still, I hear R. laughing about this in his room as he is undressing; he opens the door and laughingly quotes to me the words “Il y a beaucoup de mensonges” [“There are plenty of lies”].
In the salon he talked to me about character and said it was foolish to praise it, for either it was meaningless, or a person could not act otherwise than he had done. (“For example, when I did not wish to compose a ballet for Tannhäuser: I could not have acted differently.”) I ask him whether he does not admit struggles inside a noble person. “Yes, but the decision is preordained. And the actions are what matter.” At supper he recalled and related his dream. He had a strange, big hat on his head, with tassels hanging from it which were very annoying; he was trying to adjust them when a giant grasshopper looked at him and thoroughly frightened him. Recently he called me in to look at a grasshopper, which, strangely enough, was looking in with huge eyes! As we were coming home in the gondola he thought of Walther von Stolzing and said he ought to have pleased Gobineau, a true knight, full of defiance until Hans Sachs comes along and guides him wisely. Then he recalls childhood memories, above all of Prague and the flea market, which he so much loved - and the journey on foot.