Thursday, June 26:
R. had a good night, and after we have once more set the world to rights, to use his expression, he goes to his work. The weather is still not good enough for him to begin his projected evening by ourselves.
Despite much “blathering,” Carlyle says some very fine things about Shakespeare; R. remarks in particular on the way Nature rewards the poet by allowing him to appear as a part of itself. He is excellent on Luther, and we are particularly pleased by his remark that the Catholic church will last as long as it retains the ability to satisfy noble spirits; as long as it offers mortals the possibility of being good and devout, just so long will it survive.
In the evening, when I go to greet R. in his little room, he tells me he wants to hold a celebration for me in it. “When?” “When I get my first real inspiration.”
I remind him that this month, 13 years ago, I came to join him in Starnberg. Memories of the external circumstances, and a sigh. R.: “I regret my whole life.” I: “But we discovered each other.” R.: “Yes, but fifteen years too late.”