Cosima's Diaries

Sunday, January 1:

R. dreamed that he was thrashing a boy, using a tallow candle, which proved to be unsuitable—too soft—for the task, whereupon he woke up! We both look cheerfully toward the approaching year, and evidence of his good mood is seen in his telegram to my father [in English]: “We belong, we belong to the temperance society!” ... He works but is still having trouble with the ink, feels like interrupting his work, which is tiring him, and comes to lunch looking tired. However, he soon recovers his spirits, and we are soon in lively conversation, mainly about what he is reading. We then drive with the children to the Tascas’ for a kind of New Year’s court, of which R. quickly becomes weary. We soon make our way home, where we are then obliged to receive the prefect and his wife, and are glad when we can sit down to a game of whist, after a lengthy talk about the world situation! ... After whist, memories of Munich and its former intrigues come into our minds!

Monday, January 2:

After a good night R. wakes up feeling well, and in our first conversation he talks of Schiller’s ballad “The Glove”; he laughingly calls it a curious subject for poetry, says he much prefers the episode of Don Quixote and the lion, and gaily recalls it. He works; at half past twelve we go for a walk in the garden and take delight in the plants, with their blossoms and fruits. He says he has written only a quarter of a page, and altogether he has now decided to work only when everything else bores him. At lunch he is very cheerful and full of fun, and quotes at random lines from various Schiller ballads; afterward talks of Maria Stuart, the scene between the two queens, and remarks how fine it is that the wide-ranging and apparently entirely political play builds up to this one scene which expresses its whole meaning. He says that this play, which he now finds so good, made little impression on him in his youth; he was not able to follow its emotional subtleties, and it seemed that the mourning at the beginning belonged more to the end of the play. His talk alternates between jest and earnest; he suddenly stops; we ask him what is the matter: “Well, when all I see after my jokes is puzzled faces ...” (Apparently some joke he made had not been understood.) I: “But who is making puzzled faces?” Whereupon from the far end of the table, quite calmly, Fidi: “I am,” which amuses us indescribably. Among other things, R. also mentions the Englishman who, out of boredom at having to put on his clothes every day, hanged himself, and he goes off into the most comical descriptions of the vexation every routine task—cleaning his teeth, for instance—causes him. And when Jouk. agrees with him, and I remark how disgraceful it is when a person can find nothing in life to absorb him and raise him above such petty annoyances, R. says, “Yes, there is a world of ethics and a world of morals, but when one belongs to neither, yet all the same keeps going, one is trivial compared to that Englishman.” A well-phrased letter to me from Richter pleases us greatly. We go for a drive, R. recalls Fidi’s reply, expresses delight in the boy and his character, so harmonious in his development, quiet, but in no way afraid of adversity, not at all soft. From the English Gardens we go on to the sea, which, bathed in a wonderful light, always has such a liberating effect on me! In the evening R. reads the first two acts of Henry IV, Part I. “It is terrible,” he exclaims in the middle of it, “for after this nothing else seems worth bothering about; even ironic dialogues, as in Faust—what are they in comparison with these authentic characters, of whom, but for Shakespeare, we should know nothing, yet who now come before our eyes like living beings?” Before this he enlarged upon what he means by the Renaissance, and how the influence of Latinity spelled the death of everything. He talks of his great admiration for the popular element in Cervantes, and after the scene with the two carriers, he says, “Anyone who does not know people in this way is no poet.” The life of the common people here always gives him pleasure; today he addresses a beggar as “Paganini!” and recently, when we were returning from the Martorana in dull weather and in somewhat downcast spirits, he was cheered by the sight of a bagpiper, standing alone in the rain, playing in front of the lighted altar of the Madonna; and not long ago, when we were returning from the Villa Belmonte, two children riding on a donkey which bore the exuberant youngsters off at a gallop. At supper he suddenly jumps up, leaves the room, comes back after a while, and says, “How trivial are your lives compared with mine!” He wants to be asked but at the same time not to tell, and he interpellates the girls. I say I know he went to his score. “Yes, but what for?”—and he will not say. But at last, “I have found the bass clarinet!”, and is teasingly brusque with us.

Tuesday, January 3:

R. had a good night, though his sleep was interrupted once. We have breakfast in bed, talking about Henry IV, Part I. At lunch R. raises the subject again and observes that Jouk. cannot get the same pleasure that we do from the comic scenes, since Russian education, which is cosmopolitan, encourages other tastes: “We Germans have no taste at all, but that means we are at any rate now and again more susceptible to works of genius.” When Jouk. protests against the assertion that he is closer in spirit to French literature than to German, R. replies, “When I say German, I am thinking only of Faust and possibly Götz, for with Iphigenie, with Tasso, etc., Goethe came nearer to what I call Renaissance culture.” Late in the evening he returns to this idea that a painter cannot possibly appreciate popular things. One could not imagine Raphael, Michelangelo, taking pleasure in such folk scenes, he says, but certainly Dürer, and also Leonardo, a man of breeding who could play around with things. In the course of this conversation he calls Shakespeare “a nonexistent mirage of reality.” But it torments him to see Jouk. disconcerted by his remark. He deplores the fact that, when he feels ill at ease, he has this urge to be abrasive, indeed to hurt others. And all through lunch he is on edge, also with Rub., whom he makes fun of for not having appreciated Lohengrin at first hearing. In connection with this we come to talk about Schopenhauer, whom I jestingly call a bad man, since he saw Tannhäuser and, “never mind how bad the performance was,” could see nothing in it, even in the text. A telegram from Leipzig reports the success there of Tristan; R. says he hears the message but still lacks belief, unless many cuts have been made. We stroll down to the sea, R. and I; he is not feeling completely well, and when, in the evening, he and Jouk. complain about life, I say my contentment makes me feel quite vulgar, whereupon R. praises me for having retained this great strength. After that his mood changes completely, he is gay, accepts the newspaper description of Linderhof with good grace, and returns happily to the reading of Henry IV, Part I. Unfortunately Count Tasca interrupts us, and that provokes R., after his departure, to an outburst against society. He then reads Henry IV, Part I to the end, regretting the farce played by Falstaff with the body of Percy, though he admits that here, too, Shakespeare was being truthful.

Wednesday, January 4:

R. dreamed of a performance of Lohengrin in which the singers, and particularly Scaria, had forgotten their roles. He again complains bitterly of his chest spasms and suffers from the cold in the morning. At lunch he complains of the exertions of his work. Also, the weather is dull, R. feels it and orders a fire. At supper we manage to amuse him with all kinds of accounts of the “evil eye” here. After supper we attempt to read a dialogue by Stein, Saint Catherine of Siena, but R. soon interrupts the inadequate reading (mine); he also finds the subject distasteful—a saint involved can say is that a woman like that is stupid. We then play whist.

Thursday, January 5:

R. had a good night, and the familiar gay singing of the child—boy or girl—at 6 o’clock in the morning again delights him. We have a cheerful breakfast in the conservatory, unfortunately amid the stares of strangers, but that does not embarrass us. The street calls keep us amused, and the day starts in good spirits. R. works, goes for a walk in the garden before lunch, and when he returns and sees me waiting to go to table with him, he exclaims, “Mamsell Glorious!” At lunch he talks about the changes of fortune brought about by Napoleon’s divorce, as described in Mme de Rémusat’s memoirs, and says he cannot understand why this interesting subject has not been turned into a play. He takes quite a long rest after lunch, and then we drive, he and I, via the English Gardens to the Favorita. When I tell him I have just been thinking of Parsifal and am pleased that this last work of his is also his masterpiece, he replies, or rather interrupts me very excitedly, “No, no, I was telling myself today that it is quite remarkable that I held this work back for my fullest maturity; I know what I know and what is in it; and the new school, Wolzogen and the others, can take their lead from it.” He then hints at, rather than expresses, the content of this work, “salvation to the savior”—and we are silent after he has added, “Good that we are alone.” Then he suddenly mentions Brandt, saying very earnestly, “Oh, that this profoundly loyal person—for that he was to me—had to die!” And he recalls all his remarkable talents. I tell him that I have written to Frau Brandt, promising that he would write to her son. We drive farther on, and a kind God permits me to take such delight in the countryside that my gloomy thoughts disperse like clouds. He is pleased with the drive and orders the coachman to take us to the sea; we get out and walk on the quay near the railroad station. The view is quite wonderful, and R., after asking me what I find so beautiful about it, begins to enjoy it, too. And in gentle, indeed uplifted spirits, we return home. He goes to his work, completes two pages today, and joins us at table, somewhat excited but in cheerful mood. Lenbach’s wonderful sketch of my father leads to reflections; when we mention that L. has never done such a picture of R., he says, “On the one hand I am too much of a Philistine, on the other, perhaps too intellectual,” and he goes on to observe that this sketch, splendid and a good likeness though it is, nevertheless reflects only a single instant, an action, not complete repose; in his opinion a portrait should show this, and he is glad that the photograph of him—on which the engraving is based—exists. This is how he would like to look. He then talks about the visual arts and expresses his hope to Jouk. that he will understand what he means by this—not painting, which, as he very well knows, comes closest to his own art (the Greeks, for example, knew nothing about it), but architecturally decorative trivialities such as the saltcellar of Benvenuto Cellini, etc. In my perception of the world, etc., such things seem utterly despicable. He then talks about his instrumentation, compares it with painting techniques, then relates atrocities committed by the Russian government and declares that what is best in the nation can certainly be found among the nihilists; in the higher spheres everything is rotten and decayed. We then begin Henry IV, Part II; when he has to skip several passages, he complains about having to read it aloud in front of “womenfolk.” Later I jokingly point this out, but he cannot remember having said it—as so often, his remarks are the involuntary expression of his thoughts, a mere indication of his feelings of unease. Rub. plays Weber’s Sonata in A-flat major and his “Polonaise,” which again make R. feel that he is “no musician”; despite some lovely passages, the sonata reminds him of Kalkbrenner, and he finds its stiffness of form and applause-seeking brilliance distasteful; he says this piano literature shows not the slightest trace of Beethoven’s influence. He does not listen to the “Polonaise,” but enjoys the glorious moonlight and the mild air; we go into the conservatory and enjoy the delights of Nature. When the Tristan night and the Walküre night are mentioned, he says that in neither case was he thinking of moonlight, but just of warm summer nights, if only for the reason that on stage the moon looks ridiculous. Many thoughts of travel! From here we should go on to make the acquaintance of Athens and the Ionian islands; but he says Constantinople does not interest him at all, neither its founding nor its predominance means a thing to him.

Friday, January 6:

R. had a good night, and we have a cheerful breakfast in the conservatory, talking about all kinds of things, including Cherubini, whom Schemann is trying to bring closer to our hearts: “Man should not visit the gods,” says R. R. describes this outmoded master as interesting and boring at one and the same time. Then he passes on to the French, saying that the way they have turned pater and mater into père and mère says everything. R. then goes to his work, which, however, puts a great strain on him today. Page 331, with the harps (Parsifal mounting the steps to the altar), causes him much exertion; the weather is dull, and the news that Lusch is about to return produces from him only the remark that she is now just a guest in our home. We take a drive to the Favorita, but he does not feel well. At supper he discusses the news that it will be L. Bucher’s task to arrange the Pope’s new position in Rome as a free city. He already mentioned this during our walk: “Who possesses the rights, then?” he said, talking of the Piedmontese rulers. At lunch he defended Frederick Barbarossa against the accusation of cruelty: “They believed in themselves, those rulers, were caught up in a magnificent error. At that time the Pope represented the people. But one cannot call them simply cruel.” I continue reading G. Keller to distract him, and the story of Salome offers us quite a lot to enjoy.

Saturday, January 7:

Today we have breakfast in bed, after a night during which R. got up once and read in Mme de Rémusat a scene in which Talleyrand, after an altercation with Napoleon, exclaimed, “Quel dommage qu’un si grand homme soit si mal élevé” [“What a pity that such a great man should be so badly brought up”]—a remark R. jokingly applies to himself. He comes back to the news of the restoration of secular power [in the papal states] and says there is no longer any good faith anywhere. He works and is much worn out by it; we make an outing to the pier and then to the courtyard discovered by Jouk., at Villa Philippina. Women are not allowed in, but R. admires the curious courtyard with its terraces. Returning home, he goes through the Stein pieces of which I had spoken—Saint Catherine, Luther, Homeless—and is thoroughly delighted with them; he says he feels in some way implicated, seeing his ideas bearing such fruit, and he considers Stein to have a definite vocation. In the evening, when Rub. plays us one of his “Pictures,” R. does not at first recognize the awakening of Brünnhilde, but then he is pleased with it, even though he does not at the moment enjoy hearing music. We finish Keller’s story Regine, which impresses us, and then discuss the curious habit among ordinary people of preserving silence. We are reminded of Minna’s behavior toward Nathalie.

Sunday, January 8:

After a good night R. and I have breakfast in the conservatory, and he says, “It has occurred to me that we now seem to concern ourselves only with dead things; everything around us is lifeless, whereas previously our existence was concerned with living things, with plants, animals; Wotan carved his spear from the growing ash tree.” When I say that it is perhaps this life within life that has given later generations a feeling for divinity, and that Siegfried and Brünnhilde give the appearance of sacred, living Nature, whereas the Gibichungs are already among the dead, he agrees with me. From this we go on to Keller’s story, and I say how regrettable it is that our modern world has led him to subjects such as commercial secretaries, people one is almost ashamed to mention, remembering how the people of the Middle Ages brought forth such figures as Geneviève and Elisabeth. He then wants to rest, is disturbed by the children’s reading, calls for me to help him, but there is no more question of work, and he decides to go to the museum with us. Memling’s charming and masterly picture pleases him as a very delightful piece of trifling, but what most enchants him is the Greek ram. Unfortunately the happy outing ends for him in vexation and feelings of indisposition; he was too lightly dressed, he begins to feel cold, and the Rosario chapel, which we also intended to visit, has such a disagreeable effect on him that I send the children in alone and drive home with him. January 8 awakens memories of Hans, the dinner in Munich in 1868; he talks about Bülow in his youth, how, along with Karl Ritter, he had scoffed loudly at Reissiger, walking along the street behind R. Toward evening R. feels he really has caught cold, he tries to work but then asks to be read to, and in the evening we play whist. R. is extremely vexed by music coming from the room above his.

[Added on the next page but referred back to this point: “At lunch he recalls the Norns’ scene and is pleased to have written such a thing; he declares, half in jest and half in earnest, that nobody has ever mentioned all the things there are in it.”]

Monday, January 9:

The night passed fairly well, with a gentle perspiration, but vexation over unavailable precautions is unavoidable. A warmed jacket cannot be procured, but in the midst of his vexation R. asks Schnappauf how he puts jackets on madmen, and when Schnappauf shows him, R. begins to laugh heartily again. The day is spent taking care of a slight sore throat; we eat alone together, and I then go with Count Tasca to look at a villa (Airodi); this, at the same time too grandiose and too dilapidated, makes us think again of Venice, which R. prefers to all other Italian towns. In the evening I read aloud the touching story of Die arme Baronin, which R. had previously read and highly recommended—the metaphor of the little kitten particularly pleases him. After the reading he returns to his idea of the dead world in which we are now living, and puts it into words. He also comes back to animals and their way of devouring one another, and he firmly pushes the thought from his mind. Talking of German fiction in general, he says he can think of nothing arising from our society except criminal cases, for example, situations caused by clashes of character, etc.

Tuesday, January 10:

In the morning, before getting up, R. declares that he by no means shares Keller’s opinion of the shortness of life, how swiftly one is overtaken by old age; he says that in his case everything has happened so slowly. How long was he obliged to wait for everything! During the day we talk a lot about this fine story, and R. speaks with pleasure of more to come. A letter from Princess W[ittgenstein] about Lulu’s stay irritates R.; he cannot understand why my father does not put an end to this tedious relationship. [A sentence based on untranslatable wordplay omitted.] In the evening we begin Correa, and R. says he is downright glad to go from Mme de Rémusat to Keller, from history to fiction; and on hearing the sentence “She believed in herself, in prosperity, in the church,” he exclaims, “There we have Sicily exactly!” The story holds our interest and pleases us greatly. Before this, R. played the second subject from the C minor and pointed out how short it was, yet how eloquent! He continues to praise the wonderful concision of this work and mentions in contrast the Eroica, with all its “luxuriance.” When I ask him whether he considers this concision to be evidence of greater perfection, he says, “It would be foolish to try to put the C minor in some sort of higher category than the Eroica, but in it the human being has climbed a few steps higher.”

Wednesday, January 11:

When he hears a church bell in the morning, R. says, “The good Lord is sounding his repeater watch,” and he gaily asks me if I know the female name for a rhinoceros, “RhinoceRosine, or Rosine Rhinoc.” He works, and in the afternoon we drive to the Favorita; R. is vexed by the disappearance of the sun, and feels the dear Lord has it in for him: in the morning he is unable to escape the sun, and in the afternoon it uses the clouds as a handkerchief.

In the evening, more about C. W[ittgenstein], then about theatrical people and the difficulty of getting along with them. In the evening Die Berlocken and the ghost story cause us much amusement; then R. tells a very drastic anecdote, for men’s ears only, and it is very characteristic of R. that he is not pleased by our friends’ first seeing its funny side. (Fidi is unwell.)

Thursday, January 12:

R. had a good night’s rest, and Dr. Berlin allays my fears; but we are alarmed to hear that an operation on his tonsils might one day be necessary. R. works. At lunch news about the Russian Emperor brings our conversation to the Russo-Turkish War, and R. says that he had been on Russia’s side, but when he saw how talented Osman Pasha was, and how utterly untalented the Russians, his sympathy for them diminished, for it was vital to a sympathetic attitude whether or not great abilities were in evidence.

A letter from Herr Marsillach in Luxor raises the subject of the Nile again. R. dearly wishes to forget Europe for a while. We visit the cathedral, La Zisa, and on our return R. works.

He comes to supper in an animated mood and assures us that he would not hesitate for a moment to sacrifice his works for the sake of the children, not for a single moment - Tristan for Isolde, Die Meistersinger for Eva, the Ring for Siegfried. “That is life,” he says. Then he jokes about having chosen a bad country in which to get them married off, for here they would have to become Catholics, and that would seem to him a very great shame.

In the evening he talks a lot with Rub. about the harp parts, then we read the story about Lucie, a converted Catholic, and we find it so delightful that R. resolves to renew his acquaintance with Keller. Yesterday he amused himself by telling me that Die Berlocken ends touchingly, so that, as the reader, I started off apprehensive of having to become emotional in my delivery.

Friday, January 13:

[Enclosed in the Diaries is a sketch by Cosima for a poem, Sangue reale, “true blood.”]

In the morning R. observes that I would have behaved like Lucie, run off to the convent during the night! We think of these stories with pleasure, and also understand the things which put us off them at the beginning.

Today is Jouk.’s birthday, and since we would like to give him something, I go to the antique dealer’s with him and the children, but to no avail. Returning home, I find R. very run down, and at lunch he even leaves the table for a while, but he soon returns and proposes the toast very cordially. After lunch we visit a house which has been offered us. He then works, and in the evening, in honor of Jouk., the chorus from Die Feen is played, then the witch’s ballad (sung by R.) and the Overture to Die Feen.

During the last of these R. goes out; I go to see what he is doing - he is putting the finishing touches on his score: “It gave me no rest,” he says. The splendid sounds of the Tannhäuser march ring out, he comes in, and all is completed! With this, as with all his other works, he had feared being interrupted by death - that is what he told us at lunch today! As he is talking, I place the Monreale bowl on his desk, and when he goes to fetch something from his room, he discovers it, stays out for a while, then comes in with the heavy box. He likes it! He recognized Eva first, also Fidi. Then everything is told - how the theme of Monreale was adapted in this way by Jouk. at my request. We drink to Parsifal. Our friends depart later than usual; we stay up, R. and I, and talk of the various completions (Tristan, Meistersinger), and of life in general, and go off to bed in a mood of exaltation and peace.

A few more things I have to tell about this evening: first, that R. told us the story behind his first ballad (boy and swan). Then, that he spoke about the orchestration of Parsifal; the wind instruments would complain, he said, but when he recalled how, in Martha, for instance, the four horns are used time and again in the stupidest way, then he felt comforted. He tells me that the A-minor chord (as Kundry falls to the ground) will make an impression on me; the terror of sanctity flows from it, and it will have to be very beautifully played, he says.

Saturday, January 14:

R. is rather tired; he reads Renan’s Marc Aurèle (feeling that this emperor is overrated), and writes to Fritz Brandt, entrusting the supervision of the machinery to him. He then goes for a walk with the girls, and at 1 o’clock we have our meal in celebration of Parsifal, though R. insists that the work was finished on an anecdote from Renan’s book in which someone boasts that as an academician he could speak with Plato, and as a stoic with Zeno, but Pythagoras would remain silent with him; whereupon somebody at the meeting called out, “Then imagine that Pyth. is now with you, and keep silent.”

There is talk of portraits, and he says merrily that somebody should depict him with me offering him the apple of vegetarianism. I tell him that, since I heard him get so angry with Nietzsche over this subject, I have no longer had the courage to turn vegetarian. R. relates: “Yes, when he came to our house, ate nothing, said, ‘I am a vegetarian,’ I said to him, ‘You are an ass!’”

Recently, though I do not remember in what connection, we agreed that it is only people with a limited outlook who, by not knowing or by ignoring many things, can set up a system. We go for a short walk, R. pays two calls, and as we are returning, we hear some long, sustained, solemn tones; the sounds come closer, arousing feelings of earnestness and exaltation in us; we listen; a funeral procession passes by, the music simple but not vulgar, extremely beautiful, expressively played; R. is completely entranced: “Oh, what a divine thing music is - how it transforms everything!” he exclaims. Unfortunately he is annoyed by the garments and faces of the prelates. We tell our friends about it.

In the evening, after Rub. has played part of my father’s arrangement of the Tannhäuser Overture, he says he was influenced by a passage in the first part of Berlioz’s Harold Symphony; in youth one borrows from others, he says; he likes this symphony, the first movement in particular, also the serenade and the pilgrims’ march. When I remark that it seems to me soulless, he says, “Yes, a landscape painter like Mendelssohn.” I: “I think even more soulless than Mendelssohn.” - “Yes, it is like the clattering of bones, a skeleton, but there is a skeleton.”

And I cannot remember by what transition we come to stories about saints, and he recounts the tale of the Rhineland saint who sucked out a pestilence sore, and it seemed to her the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. He says that for him this contains everything, and he would come back to it again. “We artists,” he says, turning to Jouk., “are sugar in comparison.” He also tells the story about Saint Francis rolling among the pigs on the Pope’s command. We finish the evening with a game of whist.

Sunday, January 15:

In the morning R. talks about Bismarck’s statements on the responsibilities of a king, and he then continues to enlarge upon what he calls “this constitutional rubbish.” At 12 o’clock a sitting for the French painter Renoir, whom R. jokingly claims to have mistaken for Victor Noir.

This artist, belonging to the impressionists, who paint everything bright and in full sunlight, amuses R. with his excitement and his many grimaces as he works, so much so that R. tells him he is the painter from the F. Flatter. Of the very curious blue-and-pink result R. says that it makes him look like the embryo of an angel, an oyster swallowed by an epicure.

This sitting brings us to landscape painting, and from there to a discussion which becomes so heated that, when R. says, “I have been hearing the same thing for twenty years,” I leave the room. That produces a turn in the conversation which gradually restores us to the best of moods. Regarding portraits, R. declared, among other things: “What does that convey to me? The best thing a portrait artist can paint nowadays is a bloodhound!” The weather was dull, no one went out, and in the evening whist was played.

Monday, January 16:

R. takes medicine today and reads Marc Aurèle, but without pleasure. After lunch we deal with various letters which have just arrived, one, for example, from Herr Neumann about his various enterprises. An interruption by a visitor vexes R. greatly. He replies to Herr N. and advises him to drop Paris, which arouses in him nothing but disgust. Then he looks at the book of etchings which Siegfr. has received as a present (a few days ago I found him at breakfast enchanted by the page devoted to Lucas van Leyden: Joseph interpreting the dreams).

Music in the evening: the two last movements of the C Minor Symphony, not entirely to R.’s satisfaction, and the “Picture” of Siegmund and Sieglinde, the construction of which pleases him. Reports of the von Bülow concerts in Berlin sound very favorable.

Tuesday, January 17:

The air feels fresh, R. thinks of Spain, and I write to Marsillach in order to be prepared for possible travel plans. R. has a joint sitting with Jouk. and with Rub.; he asks the former how he wants to do him, profile or full face - Lucretia or Lucia.

At lunch he tells us that the Tagblatt contains a report that a tree frog has been found at Wahnfried. He drives to the club with Count Tasca and Jouk., but when there is talk of venturing farther, he wants me with him, which brings from Count Tasca a joke about the “turtle doves.”

We drive to the sea, which is rough but still lovely, even when the sky is overcast. He then writes to Feustel, and in the evening we play whist.

Wednesday, January 18:

He had a good night, and he is very cheerful at lunch, when, among other things, he talks of his definite resolve to travel up the Nile, in order to see “where Barthel gets his cider.” His current account shows good revenues, and that as always delights him.

[Added seven pages later but referred back to this point: “In the morning, when he went out with the children, R. met the Abbé Jecker, tutor to Count Mazzarino; at their first meeting he had made a good impression, but this time he seems fulsome and at the same time reserved. R. feels he has received a mot d’ordre [instruction], and he resolves to make clear to the mother and other relatives that he considers it a great shame to deliver this fine boy up to such slavery. With regard to Lusch’s nonarrival, R. takes out Hamlet and reads the final speech, adding, ‘The rest is silence’ - that is my motto.’”]

In splendid weather we take a very lovely drive to S. Maria Gesu, both the journey there and the view utterly enchant us. In the evening he reads to us a page in Renan about faith and certainty which pleases him very much. We talk about marriages, and how seldom one can be described as happy.

[The previous sentence was originally begun: “A letter from Lusch talking of the prospect of a marriage, which caused great excitement among the children, brings our conversation to marriage.” This is crossed out, obviously because it was entered on the wrong date; see January 20, last sentence?]

Then we come to the subject of age, and when we tell R. he is becoming increasingly handsome, and the same amiable remark is made about me, he says, “You have acquired a beautiful serenity.” He then claims always to be hearing me “warbling” with the children!

In the evening, when we are assembled in my salon, our neighbors, a married couple from America, start singing hymns in two-part harmony; this at first makes us laugh, particularly since the husband sings the bass very inaccurately, but gradually it becomes almost moving, and at any rate arouses in us reflection and contemplation. Then at R.’s request Rub. plays a Chopin polonaise.

(Bismarck’s efforts, aimed apparently at revising the constitution, cause R. to recall his conversation with Herr von Lutz in 1865; the latter told him that they would rather go along with Prussia than with Austria, because Prussia would greatly restrict constitutionalism. According to this, R. observes, everything that has happened since has been a parenthesis.)

Thursday, January 19:

R. had a good night, but he is much annoyed by the exorbitant demands of our landlord, and I notice it in the irritable way he talks about Marc Aurèle at lunch, in the assumption that I harbor an unjustified admiration for this emperor. He talks with much emotion of the martyrdom of Saint Blandine. When mention is made of someone who wishes to see him, he tells me that the thought of any new acquaintances upsets him. At 12 o’clock he goes for a walk with the children in the English Gardens, and in the afternoon we visit the Aumale gardens, which are quite splendid and which please R., too, even if his mood is still irritable.

Seeing oranges growing beside a rose, he says, “How vulgar they seem beside that blossom!” In the evening Count Tasca calls on us to arrange for tomorrow the outing to Bagheria which R. wanted to make today. We discuss everything, then R. plays the Kaisermarsch with Rub. as a piano duet, but finds it very exhausting. As the evening ends, he tells me of the alliance between the Liberals and the Center party against Bismarck!

A letter from the publishers [Breitkopf &] Härtel announces that Lohengrin is at last to be engraved, also a new edition of Tristan. R. considers whether he should make some simplifications in this, but then abandons the idea.

Friday, January 20:

Glorious sunshine; R. had a good night, and in the morning he jokes about the success of Tristan - he says he feels like the long-legged grasshopper, “singing its wonted song in the grass.” He likens Härtel to earthworms, which emerge the moment anything moves. And at 11:30 we drive off to Bagheria with Prince Gangi, Count Tasca, and the children in four carriages.

The outing is a complete success; the view from Val Guarnera enchants R., it seems the loveliest thing ever seen. Lunch at Soluntum with the Prince is very pleasant. A lawyer toasts R. in both German and Italian, and R. proposes the health of the Princess; despite a slight adventure on the homeward journey (the axle of a carriage breaks), it was all a great success, and R. embraces our friendly hosts with great warmth.

At home we unfortunately find a report on the Bülow concerts in Berlin; the feting of Brahms makes a dismal impression. A letter from Gobineau also brings some vexation, since R. is unable to understand why he does not join us here. “I need nobody but you,” he says. “I moved Heaven and earth to get you, and nobody else; but I am glad when I can be of help to anyone.” (Today Lusch’s letter about marriage prospects arrived.)

Saturday, January 21:

R. had a good night’s rest. In the morning we again go through Lusch’s letter, which has an enclosure from her father confessor; great vexation over the latter, and a witticism about great men who have no heart makes R. indignant. We discuss Lusch’s fate. — At 12 the fine weather tempts R. to a walk in the English Gardens with the children; I go to meet them. Our lunch is cheerful, the letter from the wine merchant Krote makes us laugh, but the fatigue arising from yesterday’s outing shows, and vexation with hotel life is growing fast. (Since, in response to R.’s request to take out this and that, Herr Ragusa was prepared to deduct only a minimum, R. has the whole bill paid, but he is no longer speaking to him.) We leave some cards, to provide an excuse for a drive. As I am talking to Jouk. about his departure, R. bursts out: why is he not told anything? It is a false kind of consideration, and he then goes on to talk very bitterly about Lusch, my father, the Princess, and soon asks to go home. I advise Jouk. to explain to him calmly why it is necessary for him to return; he does this as soon as we arrive home, and a telegram to Plett[ung] and Schwab, “Werbel and Schwemel,” is drafted, asking whether they really have anything to show. (Jouk. had already wished to leave on Wednesday night, saying nothing to R. but just leaving a letter behind; however, R. instinctively guessed it, talked of evil omens, and, when we told him about the curious twittering of a bird, which we could not find, in the chimney before supper, interpreted this as a warning against departure, so that Jouk. remained silent, impressed by these daemonic utterances. He was then obliged to go to Bagheria with us, but now it has been decided that we shall give up Sicily and visit Lusch, and it is that which I touched on today.) — In the evening I read aloud parts of a lecture on Palermo by A. Springer; R. is fairly interested in the historical aspect, but when it gets to a description of the buildings, he grows restless, goes out, comes back again, sits down in the adjoining room, withdraws into himself, says to himself, “I shall not have the heart to do it,” asks me, when I enter the room, to take no notice of him, and at last, when I return, shows me his letters to Lusch and to Gross. I am silent at first, but then I tell him that I find this letter easier to understand than the one which was sent last year. I tell him that my trust in the girl is now so great that I hoped from all this to achieve what was best for her. And gradually he calms down, and we return to the children in almost cheerful spirits and talk for a long time with Jouk. R. jokingly calls me Saint Catherine, so calm about everything that one can scarcely follow me. Then we talk about the children, who were today strangely muddle-headed, like a flock of sheep, R. says, and, joking, we release our friend and go off to bed.

Sunday, January 22:

R. had a good night, and we discuss yesterday’s reading, the significance of the Arab people, and Gobineau’s overestimation of the Normans, who in fact simply took over the beautiful things they found in order to enjoy them; they created nothing themselves. He writes a letter to Rub.’s father, praising his son, and around midday goes for a walk in the garden opposite, where Prof. Salinas, who came to fetch Siegfried for an outing, finds him. In this otherwise cultured man he detects the same limited outlook common to all people who occupy themselves with art, and he is glad when I arrive, since he “chatters too much.” We accompany Jouk. to the ship and take leave of him there with much waving. At supper Fidi pleases us with his efforts to take over from our friend in our conversations; he talks about a conspiracy in Constantinople, mining disasters, etc. R. says, “He is saying, ‘Please put me in his place.’ ” — We play whist and Chopin! The latter pleases even R. with his melodic refinement, which is indeed downright astonishing in one who, as a virtuoso, as R. says, had to provide scope for rhetorical brilliance. When we are alone, he takes a friendly attitude toward me; we comment on the ability to say the most terrible things lightly, and we talk of Minna, too. When R. mentions that it was not until the year 1864 that he told me about her infidelity, I can reply to him that, when he told me about it in the garden at Starnberg, I had the feeling that only to me could he have said it; and the fact that he did say it left me with indescribable feelings. (The letter to Rub.’s father has put something of a strain on him, he complains about having things of this sort demanded of him, but, according to his account, he spoke very warmly of our friend.)

Monday, January 23:

R. had a good night, but the topic which most occupies us is our living accommodations; we talk to a paper hanger, decide to drive to Bagheria to look at the Casa Ferdinandea there. When I remark that I believe in good, R. says, “A yearning for good is part of Nature, though it is true that evil is also there in full.” — M. Aurèle bores him greatly, and Renan’s sugary portrayal makes him sarcastic. At 12 o’clock Prince Gangi appears with Count Tasca and offers us the former’s villa in the country, which we then visit; it pleases us very much, and we accept it with much gratitude. R. replies as follows to a telegram from Jouk. [not discovered]. — He is tired from the journey; all the new arrangements upset him. He immediately gives notice to the hotel. In the evening Rub. plays us the symphonic poem Dante and arouses interest with it, as well as regret [the last four words obliterated in ink by an unknown hand]. —

Tuesday, January 24:

R. had a very disturbed night; he reads a lot! — In the morning I hear him playing the enclosed melody [four bars of music, inscribed by Wagner “melody comp. by Shakespeare”]: “This is by the descendant of Dürer and Shakespeare,” he says; yesterday he observed that he could not understand how someone in proper health could choose Hell as a subject. [Added in margin: “Otherwise our morning conversation is about the Fantaisie, which is being sold!”] He answers Herr Ragusa’s letter in person, and all is settled peacefully, R. as usual prepared to make payment in full. Now all our thoughts are directed toward the new house. Unfortunately R. does not feel well; we drive to the Favorita, get out in the Via della Libertà, and frequently have to sit down for a rest. He notices an old and ragged man dragging himself along laboriously with a rake and a spade: “Always the aged who have the hard work!” R. exclaims. I: “Let’s give him something.” R. approaches him with our gift, the old man at first regards him with solemn surprise, then understands him, smiles, and continues laboriously on his way. “The earnestness of that look!” R. exclaims. I had felt it, too - the withdrawal from everything, from the whole world, which was expressed in this look. — We return home slowly, and R. has much vexation with the proofs of the piano score. We have supper later than usual and spend the rest of the evening in cheerful chat. (Fritz Brandt writes very reassuringly.)

Wednesday, January 25:

But R. had another restless night. However, when I return from the new house around lunchtime with Boni and Count Tasca, I see him on the Corso, going in search of cigarettes and looking so well that it is hard to believe he had a bad night. Lunch is spent on reports and proposals regarding the move, also reports about Venice. Since I am somewhat tired in the evening, I let R. go for a walk by himself; he tells me that he saw the street laborer again and that the latter greeted him with a smile. He would like to make a donation to the man. He sits down beside me when he returns from his walk and complains of the constant unrest; to calm him down, I tell him that everything between us is so nicely arranged. He: “Yes, for leaving the world, but not for gaining a foothold in it.” — In the evening Prof. Moleschott visits us, he recalls having spoken French with me in Zurich more than 20 years ago and asks me whether I have turned into a German. After that a singer, an Englishwoman, from whom R. takes flight, and in the evening friend Rub., who plays us his “Picture,” to our great satisfaction. Then whist, and finally some words between R. and me about Renan, whom R. declares must be a Jew, since the whole thing is a glorification of Judaism. “Nobody has ever written such popular songs as Beeth.!” he exclaims merrily today! — The length of the evenings and nights makes him feel melancholy and arouses in him reflections on the misery of human existence and the many things it depends on. He says that every time the sun disappears behind Monte Gragio his heart feels heavy. Herr Neumann requests permission to call his enterprise the Wagner Theater. R. grants it. [Added two pages later but referred back to this point: “R. tells Rub. two jokes he made yesterday. To a shell collector: ‘Dans la mer on trouve à une certaine profondeur des coquillages, plus loin des coquilles, et enfin des coquins’ [‘In the sea one finds at a certain depth mussels, farther out, other shells, and finally rogues’]. And about the B. Blatter: ‘Strange that its circulation is not increasing, when Porges writes for it so rarely!’ ”]

Thursday, January 26:

In the morning, after a somewhat restless night, R. plays the melody of Chopin’s “Marche funèbre,” and that brings us at breakfast to a discussion of the Poles and their endearing qualities. Before lunch R. reads me Renan’s passage on usury, in which he says that Christianity’s ban on usury held up civilization for a number of centuries. This makes us laugh a lot. In the afternoon R. goes to the new villa with Siegfried, meets Count Tasca there, and brings him back; Fidi tells me that Papa was satisfied, but soon afterward I notice that R. is much out of humor, and then it comes out - to our dismay - that he dislikes the villa and would sooner remain in the hotel. Prof. Salinas’s visit provides a pleasant distraction, and he tells us a lot about the Sicilians, among other things, the frugal living habits of the Borghese, opulent country people who eat practically nothing. (Concern about Loldi!) [Added three pages later but referred back to this point: “R. makes the children laugh heartily with his sudden joke: ‘Children, I won’t go back to Bayreuth - Jäger is refusing to sing Parsifal.’ ”]

Friday, January 27:

R. slept well; our breakfast is cheerful, he is reconciled to the move. He finishes M. Aurèle and gives me his final summary: “Une tendance vers le bien,” says R., “that I can allow, but on top of that une grande bonté, which R[enan] finds in everything - such optimism is worthy of [David] Strauss. Elegance and a narrow outlook, that is the Frenchman of today.” — At R.’s request I write to Venice about the palazzo there recommended to us by Princess Hatzfeldt, and before lunch we visit some carpet and wallpaper dealers, again in connection with our move. Over coffee a letter from Lusch (she is not coming until Tuesday) arouses his anger, and since he expresses this with some violence, it makes me weep and complain, for I am worried about Loldi, and the move is making me melancholy. However, it is very soon over; he observes that when the words Jouk. enclosed with Lusch’s letter were read out, he was inwardly pleased that he had yielded to my persuasions not to send his letter to her; the trivialities in Lusch’s present letter annoyed him above all because they prevented him from giving free rein to his overwhelming feelings toward me. — Count T. comes, I settle kitchen and carriage with him. R. takes a walk along the Libertà but does not encounter his old man, for whom he wants to set aside a sum of money, and that worries him. In the evening, after telling us that the antivivisection petition has again been rejected (Reichstag), he says that he recognizes no religion except compassion, and it is precisely this which it is not only impossible to arouse, but which is now being killed off entirely. Pity no longer exists! — During the evening he indignantly relates what the B. Tagblatt is printing about friend Schnappauf and his decorations [newspaper clipping enclosed; see notes]. He says he is writing to friend Gross about it, telling him what it makes him feel like to live in a place where such things are possible, and indeed tolerated. We play whist, and in the evening, when we are alone, I go along with his melancholy about the new house, just to avoid provoking him by contradiction into being prejudiced too strongly against it. [Added two pages later but referred back to this point: “R. asks me whether I believe Count Gobineau will be able to write his preface retracting various things which might give offense.”]

Saturday, January 28:

R. had a good night, but after his morning bath he has a prolonged spasm and joins me at breakfast looking run down. He gradually calms down and takes delight in the sky and the sun and the country. I drive out to Porrazzi, and since the sky is wonderful and the mountains make a glorious impression on me, I am able to give him a cheerful report and get him to regard our move favorably. Unfortunately the mail brings him an unjustified demand from the agent in Frankfurt; he immediately sends a telegram to friend Gross, telling him to withdraw the rights from the director there, Dr. Claar; then, out of humor, he tries to take a stroll in the garden, where he is “goggled at” by some ladies, which irritates him, and he comes to lunch dissatisfied. “What a world it is!” he exclaims in connection with the agent. But he calms down, and though he first of all feels my equanimity regarding Lulu’s visit (“When the witch interferes,” he says, meaning Princess W., “everywhere is Hell”) to be stiff and cold, he gradually comes around to my way of seeing things, after I have assured him that, difficult as I may sometimes find certain things, I can never forget how much happier I am than others. A look from Siegfried, the sweet faces of the girls, even my ability to feel the greatness and sublimity of Nature as I did today - all this fills me with gratitude. And even some disquiet concerning how differently the elder girls have turned out - this, too, tells me in the mighty language of Nature that it was right to dissolve my first marriage, and teaches me patience and timid, though joyful, resignation. — R. agrees with me that this is the way to look at life, but he says, “Our union started 15 years too late!” In the afternoon I drive out to Porrazzi, R. follows with Eva, but he is in poor spirits because of indisposition, and he cannot bring himself to like the new house. In the evening friend Rub. plays the Tannhäuser Overture to us, but R. does not enjoy it, and we are filled with regret that a person so excellent in his own way should seem so alien to us; R. even goes so far as to say that he would prefer it if he were no longer with us, though he has the highest opinion of him. — Reading the final chapter of Renan’s M. Aurèle together, we have to smile over the remark that Jesus resembled nobody as little as his followers! ... The chapter itself is interesting on account of its subtle analysis, but it annoys one with what R. calls its “trivial mixing up of everything,” its Jewish optimism. At lunch R. tells us that Schnappauf was today erroneously arrested as a thief, but was soon released. — R. is still much upset by the Tagblatt episode; he talks of writing himself, then of canceling his subscription, but then he decides to do nothing.

Sunday, January 29:

R. was up once during the night, and for quite a long time, but then he fell into a good and gentle sleep. In the morning he tells me that he had been thinking of writing a piece for the B. Blatter criticizing Renan’s final chapter. He points out how shallow his idea of a miracle is, and contrasts it with Schopenhauer’s profound theory. He finds this all the more regrettable in that Renan has said excellent things about monasteries, the cult of the saints, and the way the masses have modified Christianity. How splendid R.’s eloquence as he describes miracles to me in Schopenhauer’s sense! — He has returned with enjoyment to Kant. — Around midday he calls on Countess Mazzarino, whom he fails to see, but Abbé Jecker shows him around the lovely palazzo, which pleases him. He talks jokingly of this, saying it would probably lead to his being poisoned. He is thinking of writing friend Wolz a letter; he would not know what to do with it, that is to say whether to publish it or not. Among other things, he would like to forestall Schemann with Cherubini. He has now given up the idea of a journey on the Nile, having read yesterday in the guidebook that it is bad for people with abdominal complaints. — Rub. dines with us today, since he is accompanying Boni and me to a concert; K. talks at table about present-day Italians and how they justify Gobineau’s views. He is annoyed that Gobineau cannot find a publisher for his book and that he intends to publish it at his own expense. He comes back to his idea of dramatizing Nap., and says it should be done in the style of Abelard. News I have received from Princess W. about Lusch’s abusive remarks on Rome upset me greatly, for I so dearly wish my children to be well behaved and dignified. R. defends Lusch, saying that he is pleased she should experience feelings of disgust there and also give expression to them. He says I am wrong to demand anything else. I observe that an experience such as Lusch has just been through should be given a more refined and elegiac form! But how fine and how kind it is of him to speak in her defense and how willing I am to listen, alas! When I cite Marie Wittg. and how nobly she bore all the miseries of her youth without complaint, he says, “That is why she became such a passive person - everything in her was struck dead.” We play whist in the evening.

Monday, January 30:

R. had a good night; we have breakfast in bed in cheerful spirits, and I go off soon afterward to Porrazzi, return home in good spirits, although some things there seem to me somewhat primitive when I consider R.’s tastes, tell him of the fine carriage we shall have - Prince Gangi had just shown it to me - and the lovely location. At lunch R. talks about what he read today, Kant on earthquakes, which he enjoyed. But after lunch R. drives out to Porrazzi and is so struck by the simplicity of the house that he wants to make as many alterations and additions as possible; when I ask him to stop worrying on my account, since I should soon get things to my liking and do not like offending people who have been so friendly toward us, however alien they may seem, R. is at first angry, but then he jokes about what he calls my pride on the one hand and my aspirations toward sainthood on the other. We then talk about Lusch’s arrival tomorrow and the celebrations in connection with it, and very sweetly Fidi says to us in Sicilian dialect as he goes off to bed, “Allora domani non si parlano di questa casa, ma di Roma, di altre cose” [“Tomorrow there will be no talking about this house, but about Rome and other things”] ... Even yesterday, at the start of the disputes about Lusch, he said softly to me when I spoke my wish with regard to the children, “lo capisco” [“I understand”], and his gentle nature is a boundless delight to us. When we are alone, we read Stein’s article on Rousseau in the B. Bl. and find it quite outstanding. R. then talks of the possibilities: “If one were to win over a person of as good a disposition as young Mazzarino for great ideas, where, to whom could he look for support?” And he mentions little Cavaliere Guccia and smiles. —

Tuesday, January 31:

We come back to our theme in the morning, that is to say, the differences in our characters as seen from outside, and when he says to me in a friendly way that I am both pride and weakness, and I reply that this does not seem to me a very special mixture, he replies emphatically, “The best for sainthood!,” which makes us laugh. Earlier than expected, as we are still chatting in bed, Lusch is announced. “With Lusch there must always be some excitement,” R. says gaily. The girl arrives around 9 o’clock, and Fidi says, “Tutta un’altra vita” [“A completely different life”]! How much, how much is there to say, with never a pause! Once again the dear child has been looking into life’s ugly countenance. R. immediately drives with her to the Via della Libertà and the Villa Trabia and returns thoroughly satisfied with her - “a splendid child.” The evening also passes in merry chat; a smiling sun greeted her arrival, and now we are together!