Friday, June 9:
Letter from E. Ollivier announcing the birth of his second son; he also asks me why last June I tried to advise him to give up his ministry.
R. works on his collected writings. After lunch we discuss the art of Berlioz, and R. says: “Just as in Hugo there is a blatant misunderstanding of Shakespeare, so in Berlioz there is a misunderstanding of Beethoven; here and there the main object is a garish highlighting of detail. French poetry is blown-up prose.”
He then goes out, comes back, plays the first theme of the Pastoral Symphony, and says, “That is invention!” I ask what had brought that up, and he says: “I went outside, heard the howling of the wind in the trees, and said to myself: We are just elements within elements. Then I heard this theme; how absurd are all spoken words, all declarations, compared with this direct revelation!”
In the evening, a letter from Tausig; the committee is now in Weimar, and T. begs me to write to my father after all. He clearly wants a letter of some kind, no matter what. I cannot write to him; I must wait and see what happens. To Cornelius, in an attempt to enlist his brother. In the evening, Carlyle, with ever-increasing enjoyment.