Saturday, July 8:
Another fine day. At breakfast R. tells me that in the early morning yesterday, when he watched our rooster and compared its outward appearance with its cry, he realized the connection between music and sculpture. For sound is also a very individual thing.
The fashion journal continues to arouse our indignation. “The world really is ripe for the art of the future,” R. says, then informs me that he would like to learn more about the smaller theaters in Berlin which are presenting the Schiller plays. “One ought to know the base on which one is standing; and it was open-air concerts which gave me my popularity, whereas with my occasional compositions I was always ignored from above.”
I read C. Mendès’s Commune and tell R. of certain invented words in it which shock me in French, such as l’hideur, though it has something of laideur in it, and one also has the word horrible. R. says, “Yes, you are right, there is a law for devils and ghosts, and also for the manufactured French language; it is the enforced language of Mephisto; German, on the other hand, is the language of Faust.”
At lunch R. was very worn out and depressed; he says he is working so slowly, finds it difficult to get into the mood, all sorts of things distract him, he is getting another cold, etc. It makes me sad. Fidi, our small guest at table, provides a friendly diversion, and toward evening, after retiring upstairs, R. calls down to me: “It is coming, my atmosphere is forming. It is utter madness, the way I work, always such a grind!”
The rebellious workers in Silesia are all Catholics, which is giving the Prussian government something to think about.