Sonntag (12 January 1919)

Having no ticket for Don Juan, but with two other diggers, I ascend to one of the circles, where we bribed a Machiavellian flunky by a handful of paper money, to stand up at the back.  A woman squeezed closer to her hubby and made room for me, so there I was, missing only most of the first scene.  Of course, I couldn’t follow the story.  The Don was a whiskered, be-hatted, lady chaser, with robe-suspended rapier, who must, forsooth, be surrounded by diaphanous dancing damsels, even at his dinner.  Some delightful singing, nevertheless, and I can stand any number of musical evenings of anything like the same quality.

I see that in the Schauspielhaus, where drama is enacted, they are putting on Euripides, Ibsen, and so forth – if one only understood German.

The attitude of the people here is now quite friendly.  They are apparently glad to have our protection in view of the riots etc. in unoccupied parts of the Vaterland.

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