Wednesday, June 21:
Today, as I read the description of the entry of the troops into Berlin, I had to weep for joy and pride. R. is sorry that the memorial ceremony was not entrusted to him.
Then he said he was still thinking of writing down his thoughts on the Catholic church for Fidi: this had been the religion of the Roman Empire, it had held the disintegrating Empire together and had been adopted by all the subjugated provinces; Protestantism had come into being in the lands in which the Roman Empire had not held sway. R. has given the name “the Gravelotte quartet” to the Emperor and his three friends, Bismarck, Roon, and Moltke.
R. is summoning up his strength for work. “God knows when I shall get down to it,” he said. “You must be good. Do you know what I call ‘good’? When you are not indisposed and not sad, then my spirits are raised, and I make music.” We are perturbed by the fact that the machinist Brandt does not reply; have they been working on him in Munich not to become involved with the building of our theater?
I work on my copy for the King and tell R. we really must complete this work. “Yes,” says R., “up to your arrival here. Then Fidi can carry on.” “Just when I should like to be composing something comfortable I come on all this emotional stuff! I have landed myself in a nice pickle.”
At lunch we touched on the subject of Countess Pourtalès, R.’s former friend, who completely ignored his presence in Berlin. I tell R. I find it incomprehensible that such a woman should allow so mean-looking a man as Joachim to gain an influence over her. “Oh,” says R., “such women know that it is only through deeds that they can mean anything to us, whereas people like Joachim fasten themselves to the individuals whose influence is important to them, and these they flatter. Besides, women are slaves to the will, which dominates them. ‘Have you eyes?’ asks Hamlet, but this is not a matter of eyes, it is something darker. It is the energy of the will, not intelligence, not beauty, which fascinates a woman. Perhaps Nature thinks this offers more protection for her and her brood. The man of intelligence is irresponsible, etc.”
While I am playing ball with Lusch, a letter from Marie M. is brought to me; she beseeches me to write to my father; his dignity does not allow him to take the first step. Feelings of bitterness. I write at once, not emotionally, as my friend desires, but simply and soberly. R. says with a laugh, “I am all right, I can afford to be conciliatory, I have you!” Carlyle’s Frederick the Great still.