Saturday, October 11:
R. got up once, but he is not dissatisfied with his night's rest; in the morning he is much occupied with the eagles' chorus in Agamemnon, and he would like friend Wolzogen to write something about this profoundly mystical feature; the eagles, he says, are Zeus himself, they proclaim a victory, they pull to pieces a pregnant hare, and for that Artemis demands the King's daughter; she appears as protectress of animals and of peace against the god of war.
R. then recalls The Princess of Rudolstadt: royal blood for oxen's blood. Cold, trouble with the servants, R. says. Instead of friendly repentance, he shows concealed resentment.
He writes to the King and announces to me through "Freude, schöner Götterfunken" on the piano that he has completed his 7 pages; later he tells me that he has talked a lot in it about the family, also a great deal about vivisection. He always finds writing these letters a chore.
In the evening we wanted to finish the play, but a sore on his tongue, which he suddenly feels, prevents it, and I read a very good speech by the preacher Stoecker about the Jews. R. is in favor of expelling them entirely. We laugh to think that it really seems as if his article on the Jews marked the beginning of this struggle.