Friday, December 5:
R. wakes up in great concern; his nose is again swollen. He uses the steam bath, it continues to swell, and it soon becomes evident that it is erysipelas! The cold compresses do him good, he sleeps a lot, around midday he takes some soup and roasted meat, and sends word to me that he enjoyed it; in the afternoon he is cheerful, says he is putting up with the compresses in order to please the doctor. When I tell him that our lunch was gloomy, he says, “The funny man was missing; you are the poet and director, but I am the jester.” Then he recalls the many ridiculous things he has done in his life: several years ago, for example, in Zurich, he read Der goldene Topf aloud in Karl Ritter’s apartment, in the presence of the Wesendoncks; in the middle of it he felt his erysipelas coming on, but he continued reading. “That was vanity - was like Councillor Cams.” Severe snowstorm. This illness of R.’s fills me with gloomy thoughts; it is becoming increasingly clear to me that he cannot stand excitement of any kind, and I feel that his preoccupation with Siegfried and the consequent discussions with Herr v. Stein in this connection were too much for him. I talk about this to our young friend.