Saturday, July 9:
I am well again, but Lusch lies in bed; thus worry replaces suffering, such is life! The statuette has arrived; it is quite nicely worked, only I am sorry that the sculptor did not choose to depict the compassionate and loving Valkyrie Brünnhilde, R.’s own true creation, but rather the sinister figure brooding on revenge, which could just as well be Geibel’s or Hebbel’s; for in this mood she is, in R.’s poem, no longer herself. Loulou is recovering in bed, I read The Arabian Nights to her.
Yesterday R. once more made me happy when he said: “How happy I am! Only I should like to be 15 years younger; how much erring I could have been spared if I had had you then! And one thing is certain: without you I should never again have written a note.” He writes to the publisher Kahnt, categorically laying down his terms. Apart from that he makes a draft for his essay on Beethoven.
In the evening continuation of Dichterleben, we enjoy the scenes with the Puritans.