Friday, March 7:
R. had a good night, and he works. At lunch he suddenly exclaims, “That is a good idea! I must write it down at once.” We bring him a pencil and some music paper, and he writes a harmonic passage to accompany the bells. Afterward he asks me if I know what the f time means while the bells are sounding. It shows Gurnemanz and Parsifal in the act of listening; one hears the bells from a distance. He is completely absorbed in his creative work, and I am permitted to share it with him! Otherwise we talk of hardly anything except Naples.
In the evening whist with Herr Rubinstein, as always with “bids.” Watching R. as he plays, I have an indescribable feeling; I should like to take him in my arms, carry him up to Heaven, shield him from all suffering - I feel that this is my task. It is to make this life here below pleasant for him, to shield him, look after him, sustain him, that is my dearest wish - indeed, I feel it as an imperative! Yet what can I do, what lies in my power? It is he who does everything! His eyes, his cherished glance, how to bear the world without their radiance?