Thursday, August 29:
R. still well and working in the best of spirits; at lunch he sings the theme which he jokingly mentioned a few days ago, after hearing the Dante Symphony, when he said he had stolen much from my father; R. calls his symphonic poems un repaire des voleurs, which makes us laugh heartily.
All sorts of things are being told us about the chickens, the children declare that one of the cocks sang something from the Siegfried Idyll.... In the afternoon went through some of Parsifal (first act), and in the evening certainly the most original whist game imaginable: my father, Richard, and I, and Malwida as onlooker; R. bubbling over with wit, high spirits, and friendliness, the very epitome of Nature’s serenity, indomitable strength, and creative urge; my father mild and amiable, like a reflection of its melancholy!