Saturday, September 27:
Saint Cosmas celebrated after all, in the morning, at lunch, and again toward evening, for a friendly fate ordains that Alexander and Darius, ordered by me, also arrive during the afternoon.
R. shows me in it what made such an impression on him 50 years ago that he has still not forgotten it; he says he can still see Hephaistion’s fury; the “Hurry, my dear one,” the anecdote regarding which he has often told me—this makes us laugh; and the cover (Lyra and stars) transports us back to that time.
“Not a bad time,” R. exclaims. This was in the evening. In the morning there was the news of at least not a bad night, and when, on parting, he gives me his blessing, he is pleased that I am looking so well, remarks on a “gleam” in my eye—probably the little pleasure I am hoping to prepare for him shows in my face!
Thinking how to arrange my little surprise, I have the feeling that painters can only really paint the persons they love, for what does a stranger see in us? And everything is strange that one does not love, and love fervently!
Much blissful chat throughout the day. When I am returning from some shopping, I hear R.’s voice in Siegfriedstrasse and, wishing to catch him quickly, take the path through W.’s courtyard; expecting me, he goes to the street railings to meet me, and thus we spend some time seeking each other, laughing in the end about the curious mischance which kept us apart!
At supper we talked about our first stay in Italy, at a time when “the future held no prospects.” “What a time!” R. exclaims; “how meaningless everything else seemed then—the art of the future and all that!”
Then whist and Beethoven’s first quartet, which R. enjoys, though he describes it as cold music, a good piece of music making, in which feeling also has its place.