Wednesday, October 31:
R. works; I do a little bit of inking in, translate, and give the children their lessons. R. settles with Herr Pollini. And so the splendid work has now been given away! R. says again and again that he would like one day to give the world his final word.
However, he still retains his divine sense of humor; as we were talking about arithmetic, and among other things about planimetry, he says, “I know about that, I practiced it throughout 50 years of marriage, but I never really mastered it.” In the evening a story by Lope de Vega, uninteresting. Foehn, memories of Tribschen. But R. also recalls that at one time I did not like Kietz’s busts; that grieves him, because he loves mine greatly. I also feel sad at having said it; we weep, lament, and embrace. “Oh, dear! I must give up love,” says R. “I am like Schmitt, the singing teacher - at my age it is too intense.”