Sunday, July 23:
Letter from E. Krockow; in his final days Tausig had called us, Wagner and me, “two great natural forces.” Hermann Brockhaus sends the papers which Marie Muchanoff had entrusted to him for R.; she seems to have lost her head entirely. What will become of our affairs, God knows.
In the morning the two older girls to church, the two little ones with us, playing very nicely. As I am writing this, R. calls down to me from the upstairs salon, where he is working, “Cosima, where are you?” “Down here, I am writing my diary.” “Are you writing nice things?” “Of course, but what makes you think of me now?” “Fool! What else do I ever think of? Where should I find the will to go on working except in this thought? I should like to know what would have become of me if I had not found you. Ruined, after committing one folly after another. Wasted away in misery.” Then he goes back to his work. Unfortunately he is not well; he complained of heaviness and weariness.
In the afternoon, visit from Countess Bassenheim; just returned from Munich, she tells us the most horrible things about the King, what ill-mannered jealousy he showed toward the Crown Prince during the ceremonial entry of the troops, how the peasants scoff at him for having his hunting lodges gilded and furnishing them in Louis XIV style, etc. R. very despondent about it, alas, this dependence on him.
Our Americans, the Lang couple, both very nice and musical. But when he plays a difficult piece by my father, R. remarks that here something is being turned into a rule which was part of my father’s personality: “The magic he conveyed in his playing, which suited the outer glamour of his life; now his pupils are learning his colossal technique and having to spend a colossal amount of time doing it.” R. regards this, rightly, as a waste of time, since they lack the individuality from which it all sprang.