Wednesday, May 29:
R. had a good night, and he tells me he would like to take up his composing again: “Life is treating me so well now that I consider it my downright duty to work, and the only work analogous to my state is creative work. That is my favorite activity, the one which does me most good; though of course there are feelings which are more important.”
I work with the children and write in detail to friend Glasenapp, expressing my gratitude. In the afternoon I meet R. at the Wolzogens’ and am able to tell him the news, just received from Feustel, that the bank in Gera has advanced the sum needed to cover the deficit. I return home with R., the mean and vicious face of a common man in the street upsets him.
He works until supper and afterward reads to me, Lusch, and friend Seidl two acts of Macbeth, with indescribable effect. R. is also of my opinion that in Macbeth the English language is particularly true to itself, that the word “Hail,” for instance, sounds completely different from “Heil,” hoarse and daemonic. “Yes, that’s also something for a fan-waving audience!” he exclaims. “How genius invariably shoots far beyond the target! It gives me downright joy to see how impossible Shakespeare is, too. Of course the main thing is the shattering effect, not the artistic pleasure of savoring every detail, as we are doing here, just as in my works it is not necessary for the audience to recognize the many-sidedness of the music.”
When we are left alone in the salon we become immersed in each other. “Oh, my treasure, you bring out all the good in me, and then there will be nothing left but the bad!” “My only one.” “No, you are the only one!” When we part after a silent embrace, R. exclaims, “Oh, if people only knew how sufficient unto each other we are!”