Wednesday, June 1:
I often talk with R. about the French and their curious influence on national costumes, which they have all spoiled, the inability of their present-day actors to wear medieval or ancient costumes; what best suits them is the dress of the Louis XIV period, with its wigs, caparisons, etc. “It is remarkable how even in Shakespeare’s time the French were called M. Tardonnevymoi and regarded as ridiculously foppish. From the very start this Gallic race seems to have powdered and prettified everything; all the barbaric juices and forces seem to dry up in them.”
When I come down to breakfast, R. greets me in song with the melody from the Ninth Symphony: “Who has pulled off the great triumph, husband of this wife to be,” etc. “That is my ‘Ode to Joy,’” he says.
While I was contemplating my happiness yesterday before going to sleep, I found myself thinking of the sufferings of others; I was appalled, and, just as I long ago renounced the sensual expression of love, so I now resolved to sacrifice any kind of little joy, even indeed of comfort, in order to pay down to the very last penny for this one single nameless happiness: to behold and to share in R.’s progress!
Yesterday a letter came from Russia, without address or even name; in it two enthusiastic secret lovers thank R. for the raptures his music has brought them.
No reply from Dr. P[usinelli], or from the lawyer; both cause me concern.
In the afternoon alarm over Rus’s disappearance, but he was found again at the Adler inn. Wet day, Herr Kietz makes his outing with the steamer; in the evening reminiscences about R.’s dogs. (Arrival of the money order, which I at once send to the steamship company, and thus have put aside 5,500 francs for the children in the past year.)