Saturday, November 23:
R. had a good night and goes to his work but is unfortunately interrupted by a misunderstanding concerning dancing lesson and mealtime. As a result he is somewhat preoccupied at lunch. He tells me that he has given up Chopin - it was undoubtedly "by Vulpius."
This then leads us to the literary activities of women, who seem to find so much difficulty in recognizing their proper place in this field. R. says the occupation seems to be connected with a certain morbid condition peculiar to them, a sort of unsatisfied desire to please; they then put on blue stockings in order to dominate through the intellect. He works again in the afternoon. In the evening he astonishes me once more with the peculiarly daemonic way in which he touches on all the things which confuse and trouble human beings without realizing or guessing it - as today with Herr Kellermann. Frau Jager, returning from Vienna, can tell us nothing either new or pleasurable, though it is also not the reverse. But how happy we are when once again all is still around us!
R. brings out his cherished, sacred pages and plays and sings to me - never again will these words and this music be sung in such a manner! "I love Gurnemanz," he says, and how can one help loving him? ... How utterly is all sorrow, all worry, all tiredness dispelled! Parsifal's approach, his noble, mournful serenity when he realizes where he is, Gurnemanz's fervent greeting to the spear, so filled with wonder - how unearthly and yet how human it all is! My beloved son, let me make you a gift of this evening - may you relive it as you read these poor pages! And may I tell you its crowning glory - and will it make you think your mother vain? ... It happened like this. When, discussing with your father some arrangements for the greenhouse, I said that we had no sunshine for our camellias and the buds were falling off, he replied, "It is true we have no sunshine," then, embracing me, "but I have my sunshine at all times of the day, however gray it is outside!" Oh, my Siegfried, could you but know what miracles occur in my heart when such sunlit words shine on it! Over them my eyes close, slumber enfolds the wondrous blossom of love!