Friday, July 28:
Friend Nuitter sends R.’s articles from the Gazette Musicale; I look forward to translating them back into German.
At lunch, after Fidi has as usual eaten his strawberries with us, R. exclaims: “I curse this composing, this grind I am involved in, which will not allow me to enjoy my happiness! My own son has been here, and it all slips past me like a dream. This Nibelungen writing should have been finished long ago; it is pure madness, or I should have been made a wild creature like Beethoven. It isn’t true, as you all seem to think, that this is my proper element; to live for my own education, to enjoy my happiness, that is my real urge. Earlier, it was different. I feel as if I were trying to build a house on the blossom of that catalpa; I should first have to fill in the thousands of gulfs which now separate me and my art from the people of today. Where am I to find my Hagen with his echoing, bragging voice? The fellows who have such voices turn out to be blockheads. It is utter madness. Idylls, quartets, that is what I should still like to do. And on top of it all this petty agitation about the production of the Nibelungen!”
Much indignation that Manteuffel, who literally led his troops to sacrifice, is also being given a grant, because King Wilhelm is especially fond of him. Concern over Loulou, because she has so little sense of order. Walk with the children, to whom we give ices; late homecoming. In the house we find the Schotts, with whom we spend the evening.