Sunday, November 24:
R. did not have an entirely good night. "J." threatened to wake him, and he dreamed that he was to be put in prison for debt, was summoned before a court where all sorts of people scoffed at him and declared that he had also behaved badly toward Wolnsky; he, R., hit on the idea of asking me to give him the property received from my father; then Fidi came to see him, sent by me to say I wanted nothing more to do with R., he had behaved too badly and I would put up with anything rather than these perpetual shocks and scandals - then R. woke up! ... But all the same he does not feel unwell.
He laughs, saying Goethe had been quite right to declare that, if he had known how many good things had been written before his time, he would never have taken up his pen - and how handsome of him to make this admission! Then he talks about Greek tragedy and says it must be due to a misunderstanding that people have assumed each actor was accompanied by a flute player, it is unthinkable - probably the musicians stood in the orchestra. R. works; at lunch he tells me he has written eight bars which are exquisite, particularly the last two; but he must always keep it very simple - he told me recently that he could never be too simple.
In the afternoon we go for a walk together in the palace gardens after I read some of the Odyssey to the children, and this is then the subject of our conversation in the misty dusk. In the evening Fidi asks him to play either something from Die Walküre or the Andante from the A Major Symphony; R. plays the latter with Lulu, and when the children have gone, R. reads to me the "Classical Walpurgis Night," to our very great delight.