Tuesday, December 17:
A rather stormy night, R. managed in the end to get some sleep, which relieved me of my worry that I might have demanded too much of him with such an evening. But so great is my happiness at seeing him at last get some rest that my own sleeplessness has left no fatigue behind.
At lunch R. speaks of his utter unwillingness to say anything more, for he has already said it all; he tells me he has just been reading his essay Actors and Singers and sees how thoroughly he has already dealt with the connection between art and performance, with Shakespeare, with Schiller. And all for nothing. "The whole nation is bad," he exclaims, "from top to bottom." He says he regrets having summoned Wolz. here - the Blatter will have to cease publication, we can find no contributors, he himself has nothing more to say. I tell him that, even if the Blatter were to cease publication, W. would still be glad to have come here, in order to be living near him. He admits this is so, and the conversation passes on to the artists, whom he, R., has always regarded as his sole support, the only source of power still available to him - yet to what uses is it now being put!....
When I tell him I should like to be rich so that we could stage Parsifal just for ourselves and the King, R. says with a sigh, "That's a nice thought." He tells me about the Emperor's speeches and says: "Who drove out the princes? When did the German people ever even think of driving out its princes? And the man who says this has himself dethroned three princes from the oldest families! And nobody said a word about it. Indeed, if anyone had tried, he would have been accused of treason." At lunch R. made Lusch happy by remarking that in her dancing she moved well and showed a good, confident manner. R. rests for a while and then goes to Angermann's. On his return he tells me that the Israelite Karpeles was the only one to remember that today is Beethoven's birthday!
He says he got absorbed with Josef Rub. in a conversation about Catholicism; then he noticed that other people were listening and thought to himself that Angermann's was probably not the right place for such topics. In the evening, when friend W. and R. visit us, I repeat what the paper hanger said to me today about the sad state of industry in Germany: everywhere complaints that we are being oppressed. R. returns to the Emperor's speeches. "In order to go hunting he starts doing a bit of ruling again! And he recommends as much religion as possible." He describes with heart-rending indignation the neglect of German interests: "They introduce the gold standard," he exclaims, "we lose our silver and have to buy foreign gold! They make a coin which does not correspond to any other; we have free trade, while all other nations have protective tariffs. It is really disgraceful! And we Germans just look on, nobody says a word, though it is as clear as daylight - nothing but servility and fear. It serves us right, too - it is our punishment for the way we are, for our gloating, our indolence. Borne was quite right when he compared the Germans with a crocodile, which one can kick as much as one pleases, nothing has any effect."
I say we should stop discussing this sad theme; it is too dismal. When I hear R. talking like this, see his pained and angry expression, it takes my breath away. Turning to the piano, he concluded the conversation: "'Shall We Hope?' - the last thing I shall write, and I shall give it the motto, 'We do not hope, but we should like to.'" We move on to Bach, start the 48 Preludes and Fugues from the beginning and play the first six. R. gives Herr R. directions; after the first he says the remarkable thing about these works is that one can interpret them in different ways - this first prelude, for instance, sentimentally a la Gounod or fast and vigorous in organ style. I ask Herr R. to note down at once in pencil everything that R. says, but he does not seem able to do it properly, and so all I can say about the Fugue in D Major is that he calls it the "Mayor" and says the figuration should arouse a feeling of trepidation; the countertheme he calls the "Mayoress," and to the concluding bars he sings the words "My will has been done." The sixth fugue, in D minor, is the one he finds most wonderful: "Nothing can surpass that. It does not look worked out. What a command he has over his means of expression, using them just as his inspiration demands! And in those times, imagine - the time of Frederick the Great's father and his smokers' gatherings!" He talks about Bach's fate, his return from a journey to find his wife already dead and buried, and in this connection recalls Ranee, the founder of the Trappist order. Afterward he declares that these preludes and fugues and the motets are probably the most consummate of Bach's works; as regards the complete Passion, he cannot say whether it should be considered their equal, but - he adds - it was performed in church, by the congregation, and that is how it should be. Then we reminisce about Switzerland, about Lucerne, the beauty of the surroundings, the Richter episodes (also at table), with much merriment. R. says a French "marchand d'habits" ["clothier"] is now living in Tribschen, and we laugh afterward because on account of Rubin, he fell back on Turgenev's capers. He also talked about his ascent of the Faulhorn, which he made in bad weather, but he had the reward of being able to watch an eagle for a long time. I had quoted a line from the Indian play The Rise of the Moon of Intellect which had impressed itself on my mind through its profundity: "The world, disunited in itself, is united with God." R. says, "That is quite true, but it is not so easy to understand or to explain."