Tuesday, October 15:
R. had a good night. When we part after the morning hour, he tells me he often asks himself whether I am real, whether I am not a dream!
Before lunch he writes his letter to the King and reads it to me. I am overcome by a very curious, indescribable feeling when at the end I read R.'s words that his soul belongs for all eternity to him, the King; it pierces my heart like a serpent's tooth, and I am uncertain what it is I want. I do not want it to be just a phrase, but also not a truth, and even if it were within my power, I should not wish it unwritten, for whatever he does is rightly done. But all the same I suffer, and I disappear, in order to hide my suffering, as always it is the rapturous acceptance of my pain, my passionate welcoming of it, that comes to my aid: greetings, greetings, guest, how gladly I offer you shelter! Cheerfully relaxed, I can then return to his presence and, cleansed, feel myself worthy of being at his side.
But how strangely I am affected when R., over our after-lunch coffee, tells me I am wearing my Catholic expression, this is how he jokingly describes a look of exaltation he claims sometimes to see in me.
He goes for his rest, and I have some purchases to make in town. I return through the palace gardens, and my thoughts are dispersed as I contemplate the tree-lined paths, overlaid by a fragrant veil of mist, so that in the distance, at the end of the paths, I have the illusion of a curious sunset; there is no outward sun, but instead the earth sends forth its gold; my delight is muted, and my heart is radiant with love.
I find R. at his desk; he had been looking for me in Eysser's, arrived five minutes after I left. He is still writing to Herr Jauner about Jager, and, referring to Richter's telegram, he says with a laugh, “What a good thing it is to have telegraphed, 'Letter follows'; then everything can be considered settled.”
In the evening read Opera and Drama; R. feels Wolzogen should seek out and supply the examples for every-