Wednesday, November 1:
Today, when I tell R. that Marie Muchanoff asked me to advise him to write to Roggenbach about Bayreuth, R.'s pride rose in protest; he said, "That is a matter for my friends; after having proclaimed my cause throughout the world, I cannot approach everyone individually with bowed shoulders."
He applies himself again to his second act. After lunch I go for a drive with the children. Arrival of the score of Tristan und Isolde! Overwhelming joy!
In the evening R. plays extracts from Der Templer und die Judin with enjoyment, laughs over its clumsiness and insipidity, but takes great delight in the fine dramatic passages. "That is the Germans all over," he says, "clumsy and stupid, but capable amid all their idiocy of catching fire and producing ideas. It is the same soil from which Beethoven sprang; here the quantity of genius decides the quality of it, for in quality it is not basically very different."
In the margin: "Easter Flower has written again, sending a photograph! Modern, wild hairstyle! She tells R. to flee from Berlin." "Feelings of anguish, as always when music is played."