Thursday, June 6:
At 4 a.m. R. goes into the orange salon, and from there he once more watches the sunrise and listens to the birds; in the garden he sees a deer nibbling blades of grass through the fence, and when two pigeons fly over it with a rustle of wings, it pulls its head back in alarm, as if it had done something wrong! Then he comes in to me. When we part, we exchange congratulations on our son. "He is such a handsome boy." Presentation of gifts at two o'clock, before lunch. R. begins the toast gaily, but toward the end he becomes serious, and Fidi's expression changes nicely in tune with his.
Nice letter from the King, who pleases R. by remarking how different his birthday was this year from last year! No work for the children, so a little leisure for me. At R.'s request I write to friend Schuré, asking him to reply in our Blätter to R.'s letter. R. works, although he says he is feeling lazy! In the afternoon he goes out, while I, somewhat tired, read Dante and receive friend Wolzogen, who reads to me his rewritten, and excellent, article on the stage-dedication festival, as well as some other things, among them a lecture on the Völu-Spa (which is the way R. wants it spelled) and something by a Herr Schlemm about dignity and pride and Kundry's curse; I advise combining these, since R. is portrayed as Parsifal, like him carrying his lance, his ideal, undefiled through the labyrinth. Then I hurry down to R., who is reading Voltaire on Christianity, without much enjoyment in spite of all its wit. Blissful chat with R.
In the evening, before going off to sleep, R. again recalls the May Festival: "It was splendid! The way these children moved and looked!" The 9-year-old volunteer! He said good night to Fidi in the evening with tender earnestness and was again touched by his expression. In the evening Schopenhauer's letters, much enjoyment from them; incredible wit and liveliness, yet in spite of it his astonishing delusion that he could change the world, hence the eagerness with which he sought recognition, a delusion which blinded him to the significance of someone like R. R. feels that he addressed himself only to minds open to reason, so that his liberating doctrine should not go unrecognized, and for that reason had found "the noise of battle" not unwelcome. No trace of vanity in his self-knowledge.
Late in the evening went walking with R. in the garden. At friend Seidl's window, sang "Harlequin, thou must perish!" I ask him where he got this funny little duet, and he says: from his first wife, who was "full of popular songs."