Thursday, May 25:
Letter from Tausig, sending the circular. R. calls out to me that Paris is on fire, the Louvre in flames, whereupon I let out a cry of anguish which, R. observes, hardly 20 people in France would echo.
I write to Marie Schleinitz, explaining to her why I do not write to my father and why I wish to see him only here. With R. I discussed my previous life with great bitterness; he said as far as his own was concerned he had the same feelings as Rockel regarding his 13 years in prison: a great loss of time, but otherwise no memory of it.
In the morning we discussed music: “It is the element into which everything plunges, the fluid element, and that is why it is foolish to talk of ‘classical’ music. Can one imitate Bach, as with luck one can imitate the style of Goethe or Lessing? Bach’s, Mozart’s individuality plunged into music.”
R. very unwell, also the children again beset by coughs. A lovely evening, which makes me feel happy.