Wednesday, October 1:
Very bad night, which leads to a morning with disagreeable associations; I cut it as short as possible so that R. may get some rest, and when the hours have passed, I find these sweet lines on my table.
Written in Wagner’s handwriting: “People behave quite wretchedly toward me in this house. All the same—I ask Verzeihen! An enslaved monsieur ‘Verzeihen’ [instead of ‘Verzeihung,’ for forgiveness] is what Fidi used to say when he had done something naughty and wanted to be forgiven.” And at 12 R. comes up to me and cries, “A genoux!” When I go down on my knees, he immediately does the same, telling me that I misunderstood everything; he meant it for himself!
The sunshine does him good, he goes out, hears Siegfried, as he is digging in the sand, singing the “greeting to his loyal subjects.” Discussion about the visit of Herr v. Stein; will we really be granted the boon of educating our son according to our own ideas, bringing him to Communion as a devout Christian, in a non-Jewish way? R. says, “We must wait for a miracle.” When I say that it is too much for me to be able to believe, he advises me not to think of it at all.
After lunch, when he is crushing out his cigarette and making sure it is extinguished, he thinks of Othello and Desdemona, and I remind him of the remark he once made to me—that Othello killed Desdemona because he knew she must one day be unfaithful to him. He continues by saying that natural tendencies hold sway over acts of enthusiasm, and once the image had arisen in his mind, even if put there by such a despicable rogue, life became impossible, everything was finished, and the only saving grace was that Desdemona die with her purity unsullied. Beyond words—also as drama; Hamlet, through the nature of its material, is weakly based in comparison, R. remarks, and tends to lose itself in length; not killing [Claudius] because he is at prayer, making the journey to England—these are dramatically almost embarrassing, though entirely necessary for displaying character. I do not know why R. mentions Jaques in this connection; I tell him that what I find so remarkable about this character (among other things) is its pronounced French flavor, the curious, resigned melancholy which laughs even at profundity but is itself profound. R. agrees and wonders whether he remains in the forest. I believe one can assume that he does, and he says, “How superficial in comparison do all the princes seem, who return to their thrones!” “Except for Prospero,” I say, and together we reflect on this most moving of characters. As we part, R. calls me “Prospera.” I: “You are Prospero, you have his magic and his benevolence.”
R. does not manage to sleep in the afternoon, and in the evening he looks very run down. He reads something from Herr v. Hagen’s book, I note in it the quotation from Nietzsche and have to acknowledge in tears what we have lost in him. Visit from the doctor, he advises against a bath in the evening, which I had recommended to R., recommending camomile tea instead! Whist.