Monday, September 9:
R. had a good night, but his pains have not gone away, despite the rubdowns. He works; the overpoweringly sultry atmosphere is discharged in a thunderstorm which plunges us almost back into night, about which R. cracks many jokes. He is not looking too bad, though not as I should like to see him. Before his work he reads an article by C. Frantz which has been sent to him (about the law on socialism); he finds it excellent and cannot find words too drastic to express his indignation over the “stupidity” of these measures.
In the afternoon he goes for a walk, then he writes his reply to Baron Perfall, making it as firm as he can. “My God,” he complains, “the thought of having to talk to such people about the decorations for my Parsifal!” but then he changes direction; “I feel the way the Protestants do about Hell-perhaps it won’t be so bad after all.” In the evening he reads to us C. Frantz’s excellent article, which leads to a prolonged discussion about the dismal leadership in Germany. Despite these gloomy observations, we are overcome by tremendous high spirits when we find ourselves alone together and say good night; of course it always stems from him, but I get dragged along: “Let’s thank God that we can hardly kiss each other today for laughing!”