Monday, August 16:
In the morning R. still cheerful and well; he is happy and full of comfort and hope, he tells me. We speak about my father. R. says he first found out through him what Bach is. “One really cannot blame the world for being unwilling to accept that his gift of virtuosity was for him only of secondary importance. He was born to it, and what have time and duration to do with it?”
“The main thing is that one should be out of the ordinary. In me the accent lies on the conjunction of poet and musician; as a pure musician I would not be of much significance.” He adds, “All the world gets is the shell of the oyster; what can it possibly know of the joys of conceiving?”
In the afternoon a note from Judith, from which I see that a letter has got lost. Drove with R. to the Serovs; in the evening read Grimm’s fairy tales to the children.