Sunday, October 28:
R. had a good night. I go to church with the children. When I recently woke up in concern, wondering whether R. was sleeping, and saw him enjoying some real rest, I expressed my gratitude in prayer and felt how close the godhead had come to my joy. Oh, take every thorn from my heart, take everything which means “I,” the only thing I have to fear! Soften all harshness, break down all desire - this I cry unto thee from the depths! . . . Gladly do I utter this prayer in church. . . .
Before lunch, R. tells me that he had a bad headache, but composed it away! The trees now bear only yellow leaves on their crowns; “The journey home is nigh,” the journey into eternity, a golden gleam still resting on the treetops; I reflect on our journey home.
Frau Lucca reports on the performance of Der Holländer in Bologna and of Lohengrin in Rome, and complains of R.’s infrequent letters; he replies humorously that he has not written, because otherwise all he would have been able to do would be to ask her for half of her great fortune!
The Musikalische Zeitung reports a very foolish resolution passed by the W. Society in Berlin; they want to give their support, not solely to R.’s ideas, but to art in general!
Read Indian proverbs.