Tuesday, October 22:
R. went off to sleep with the words that he was feeling increasingly better and I should not worry; he greets the new day cheerfully with the words “Whether it annoys you or not, I slept completely undisturbed.” At breakfast, referring to our reading of yesterday, he says, “We must get down to our letter.” Then he observes that on no account should one be put off by the sometimes curious expressions in it but should always try to grasp L[uther]’s larger meaning. The misfortune of Protestantism, he says, is theology - the interpolations in the Gospels made an exegesis necessary. He praises L.’s quotations and says of the apostles, “They were, after all, the only people who called a spade a spade.”
At lunch we drink my father’s health, after R. has written a telegram in Latin - “Magnificat anima nostra, Tatrem optimum Franciscum. Tichardum Cosima cum familia.” R. clinks glasses with me a second time, saying, “Things are better than they were.” Over coffee R. tells me that he has found something, only a few bars, but they contain a lot; these early-hour dawnings produce the best results, he says. He cannot play it to me. When I express my regret, he says, “But I will write it down for you.” I try to stop him, telling him he is not supposed to write immediately after lunch: “For whom should I do it if not for you? Pour Teternite, perhaps?” he says with a laugh. He writes it down and plays it, I recognize the lance theme, and with it the sinister figure of Klingsor and Parsifal’s motive, though in some way impeded. One feels and in one’s mind sees him entangled in the labyrinth, holding the spear on high. R. says one good thing about it is that the lance theme ends chromatically, full of melancholy, whereas P.’s motive is fresh and bold; he praises contrapuntal form, which provides so many possibilities.
He goes for his afternoon rest, and afterward I find him unfortunately much annoyed by the gate leading to the Wolzogens’ house, which has been positioned asymmetrically. He takes a walk with the children along the highway to Konradsreuth, autumnal atmosphere, Berlioz, says R. But his vexation has affected him, he looks worn out and is again spitting a little blood, and, with a sword in my heart, I continue reading him Luther’s letter to the aristocracy; the reading gives him pleasure, and he scolds me for my worrying. Memories of earlier times; his visit to Berlin, our meeting in Leipzig, I in mourning, he says it was all so transfigured, so dreamlike, I amiable throughout, not high-spirited but serene. “We were so happy at being together.” I: “Yes, everything else was like Weissheimer’s music at the concert, which I did not take in at all; only Tannhäuser and Die Meistersinger remained in my mind.”