Friday, November 13:
R. at his work, I at mine; at eleven he calls me down to show me how the sun is falling on my Lenbach portrait and transfiguring it! R. quotes from The Knight of Toggenburg, how the knight waits for the loved one to show herself. He does not go out today.
In the evening I discover him utterly depressed. As long as the children are present he does not speak, but when they have left he bursts out: “What is the point of all this hard work with which I have burdened myself and which will only be abused? Who cares about it? Even the best of them, Liszt and Bülow, seek only to get on top of it as quickly as possible. What encouragement have I for working it all out so laboriously except the thought that it might be enjoyed? It is madness: where am I supposed to get the strength?”
I try to cheer him up as far as my poor abilities allow. Reading the conclusion of Tyndall’s address gradually distracts him. The address interests me very much; R. is always roused to indignation by new evidence of how little known Schopenhauer is, but apart from that, he also finds it an interesting example of English culture.