Tuesday, July 4:
Ugly pictures of the entry ceremonies in Berlin; sorrowful remarks about them: the women in chignons, little hats, tucked-up dresses, no sense of decency. R. says: “I should like to ask our artists, ‘Have you so little influence on public life, or are you infected by it yourselves?’ But,” he adds, “we are wrong to judge these things aesthetically; we must be glad that such an occasion brings the whole town to its feet. This must make an impression on the young people, but what sort of young people are they?”
R. gets down to his “toads, crows, and ravens concert,” works long, and seems satisfied. He says a short sleep after breakfast helped him a lot and put him in the mood at once. I write several letters on his behalf. I am very annoyed at hearing nothing from my lawyer.
A two-hour walk with R. in the afternoon. Talked of all sorts of things: our memories, the snatched times of being together, then Schiller, Shakespeare, Goethe, the last “always between Faust and Claudine von Villa Bella.” In the evening, Carlyle.