Wednesday, August 14:
R. dreamed that he introduced a ballet into the Kundry scene, including a bolero; that he wanted to play something to his wife Minna, who, on hearing the accompaniment, opened her eyes wide in astonishment and said it was from La Muette, whereupon he said, “That is just the accompaniment, stupid, now listen to the melody!” He works, and I have my hands full with housekeeping books, children, etc.
Still wretched weather, rain and wind, drafts everywhere; Kindschy is behaving badly, says R., who frequently tells the story of the pastry cook in Leipzig who on Sundays, when the weather would not clear, used to throw his doughnuts toward the sky with the words “Eat them yourself!” In the afternoon, while I am writing to Lusch, R. plays some music downstairs, and he tells me afterward he was working on Kundry; Brange came in, and that made him feel “Kundryesque.”
In the evening we finished Herr Glagau’s pamphlet; a terrible picture of conditions in our country. R. says that now at last he knows what became of those French billions. Concern over friend W.’s health; R. writes reassuringly to his wife, urging caution. In the evening R. takes a little notebook out of the drawer of his desk: “These are my recipes, so to speak.”