Friday, June 10:
Much joy in Fidi, who is becoming very lively and sturdy. Yesterday I read in the newspaper that Hans is to play in Nürnberg and Würzburg on behalf of the Hans Sachs monument, for the last time in Germany. Sent off Lulu’s letter to her aunt and enclosed with it a photograph of the children; her tone toward the children does in fact displease me greatly, and I have considered whether I should not put a stop to the correspondence; but later it may be to the children’s benefit to have this contact, and I willingly swallow my personal pride.
Yesterday morning we gave an innkeeper several pheasants’ eggs to hatch; when I asked why our hen pheasant did not hatch them herself, I was told she would not hatch them in the aviary! This made me sad, and I thought of the poor finch. I am very unwell and can only teach the children with an effort. R. does some work, but he is in a despondent mood, thinking of the production of Die Walküre.
After lunch we go for a drive in spite of the uncertain weather; on the journey we talk about the ugliness of present fashions. “What impression of femininity can a young man now have when he sees all these chignons?” R. says. “How can male propensities ever flourish?” A book by A. Stahr about the female characters in Goethe reveals to us the wretched triviality of the modern book world. In the evening continuation of W. Meister, much enjoyment. We then start talking about Beethoven, and R. says: “The only time Beethoven was not concise is in the finale of the great B-flat Major Sonata, which your father alone can play, and in which I got more enjoyment out of his virtuosity than out of what was being played. Conciseness seems to be the secret of music; when melody ceases and is replaced by some kind of working out, the effect is lost. Beethoven is the first composer in whom everything is melody; it was he who showed how from one and the same theme a succession of new themes arise which are complete in themselves.”