Thursday, November 23:
R. had a tolerable night. He is pleased by Gobineau's assertion that history has often been written by half-castes, who never allowed a hero to predominate, but always gave him an adviser who did everything. But an article by Dr. Herrig in the Deutsches Tagblatt about Gustavus Adolphus, the failure, for reasons of Prussian patriotism, to acknowledge this great king's significance for Germany, the view that Wallenstein was the true German hero, all this makes him indignant, and he resolves to write an open letter to Dr. H. He also says that, if anything were to be gained by making things known more widely, he would be very glad to see Gobineau's works translated.
At around 12:30 we go out in glorious sunshine, see the children on a bridge near S. Moise, direct them to the Piazzetta, and there stroll up and down enjoyably with them. The rest of the day belongs to the house. R. visits my father upstairs, and relations between them seem to become easier rather than more difficult. Since the paper hanger is working in his room, R. occupies himself with pastimes which distract him, and in consequence he spends most of his time in the anterooms, reading, listening to the children, even playing on the piano some arias from the new collection. In connection with this, he is truly horrified by the Italian music of the 18th century, Corelli, Boccherini, and the comparison of one of Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte with one of the songs from An die Entfernte provides an opportunity to demonstrate what melody and feelings really are, in contrast to "Semitic excitability." Schubert's Ständchen arouses great feelings of warmth in us; R. finds this uniquely beautiful song full of invention, and indeed dramatic, somewhat like the turn in the Walküre "Spring Song" at the words "mit leichten Waffen bezwingt er die Welt."
As we are chatting together, talking of Fidi and his studies, R. asks himself if he had ever been diligent. He thinks he was at times, but he cannot remember ever having put anything he had learned to any use. Things just came into his head. The "Sailors' Song" in Tristan, for example, just came into his head; he never pondered or said to himself he must do this or that, and this is probably what gives his things their naivete and will keep them alive. From the Nouvelle Revue, which Malwida has sent me, I read to him an account of the life of a Russian scholar among the Papuans of New Guinea. R. finds it very interesting. Then, awaiting father and daughter, we look out of the window, bright moonlight, gondolas gliding past "like swans," black swans, and the moon, a dancing star, rocking in the waves. "Rheingold," says R. We hear the voice of our old janitor, who once served in the Austrian army; he is singing "Ständchen"! R. sits down at the piano and plays it again. But then we open Tristan, and from the second act he plays the ardent reproaches of the lovers. Daniela returns, and we say good night.
As R. takes out his watch as usual before undressing, he says jokingly, "A half-caste affair like that, of course it pleases you more than a genuinely Aryan work like Siegfried." I reply that I had just been reflecting that Tristan und Isolde, even if also thoroughly Aryan, is capable of being understood by everybody, just as the humanity of the Russians is acknowledged by the Papuans. "Yes," he says, "half-castes will understand it in their own sensual way, not transcendentally. It (Tristan und Isolde) contains what Hafiz has expressed: 'To sin as a sinner, how wretched, how vulgar! Learn through sin to be a saint, a god!' Faust also expresses that once: finding salvation by hurling himself in and becoming engulfed."
Today I was awakened by a theme from Tristan, and the day ends in the same way. As we were riding in the gondola, he recalled how easily we came to love each other; this provides such a rich outpouring that even if I had not existed before, I could die with the feeling of having lived entirely and forever! Whereas all other contacts seem to suck me dry, here I find complete fulfillment! I feel a great urge to tell him this, but what are words? I dedicate my thoughts to silence, with the wish that it may descend on him as night's blessing!