Sunday, October 16:
From Herr Rothschild in Frankfurt I receive the information that he can give me none. R. receives a telegram from Herr Schmitt, the singing teacher, which reads, “Lying was previously foreign to you, it is a disgrace to your name, etc.” R. explains this delayed, yet so violent, reply to his letter as a sign of madness. Once again an old acquaintanceship sadly ended. In contrast, Herr Dingelstedt sends the contract for Rienzi with all sorts of compliments, and reports the triumphal progress made by Lohengrin in the new theater, calls Tristan a sunken treasure, and declares his intention of keeping the Nibelungen trilogy in mind!
Family lunch with R. in high spirits; he talks of Bohemia and Leipzig, which he much loves. After lunch we go for a walk; discussion of our artistic plan, R. thinks it might be a good idea, when the war ends, to send Bismarck his pamphlet Art and Politics along with a few lines. I agree with him, for so powerful a person must be made to see how important the theater is. Returning home, I find Loulou unwell and put her to bed; meanwhile the two little ones romp around with R., he cries to me that he is so happy: “Our love had marked us out for death, the children keep us alive.” He is pleased and amazed that all the children always look so clean, he says he does not understand how it is done, and it always makes him feel so aristocratic. I am happy to see him well again; a bath, yesterday, helped him. In the evening Don Juan; the harem scenes disgust us, in spite of their talent. It is like in a comic opera, R. says, and it seems impossible that a European can depict this Oriental custom in all its naivete. We are reminded of The Arabian Nights, which gives a very different insight into this world. Then, comparing Byron with Goethe and Schiller, R. says: “Everything in the lord’s work is too violent, his work gives off a dry glow, for heat he certainly has. Our poets, just as clearly conscious of the hollowness and wickedness of the world, seek their salvation in other ways. And Goethe handles satire much more powerfully in his Mephisto. Byron is no good at drama, he can describe, but he cannot depict.”
“You are my all, I your all-sorts,” R. says to me.