Sunday, November 28:
Six years ago today R. came through Berlin, and then it happened that we fell in love; at that time I thought I should never see him again, we wanted to die together. R. remembers it, and we drink to this day.
Countess Bassenheim visits me and takes Lulu off to lunch. In the afternoon R. continues writing his essay, I read some stories by Turgenev with Pohl, very mediocre. In the evening R. reads from his biography; we had a great shock at first, thinking it was lost. R. could not find it anywhere, until he remembered that he had put the folder behind his books to hide a piece of the wallpaper. I laughed and observed that this was just like him, to forget his whole biography and use the folder as if he were a paperhanger.
In the evening I reflected on how love works on us like a Plutonian eruption: it bursts through everything, throws all strata into confusion, raises mountains, and there it is, utmost transformation and utmost law. In the morning R. told me he had always wanted to come to me; now, when he is working on his Brünnhilde, I am constantly before his eyes.