Sunday, March 9:
R. had a disturbed night, at one point he laughs at me, for I slowly exclaim, “Now at last one knows what that is,” and then say nothing more. He works, however, and I go out with the children in fine sunshine. At lunch the news that Semper is dying in Rome; solemn feelings.
In the evening we go through the “Good Friday Music,” up to the bells, and celebrate in tears, tears of bliss, the salvation of mankind. R. is not satisfied with the piano downstairs and says merrily, “When I am upstairs, I close everything up, put on the soft pedal, and bang away at my stupid noise.” (Before Parsifal, Bach’s motet “Singet dem Herrn”)