Thursday, January 22:
R. slept well; he returns to me in the morning and reads to me the account of Goethe's death, which has much moved him: "So beautiful, with the knowledge of a completed lifetime; what was wrong about it was the time, his country. And how beautiful this dying head! Thus does a great and noble man die."
Of his relationship with U[lrike von] Lev[etzow] R. says, "It was a terrible strain on him; it was a farewell to life." We go for a walk together, R. and I, very, very slowly, up as far as the vineyards; everything delights him, the brooms of laurel leaves used for sweeping, a magnificent sheep, workers calling to one another ("Man as a bird," says R.), the view, the air; his slow pace worries me.
When I talk about the unrest in Ireland, R. says, "Yes, from there, from England, something may one day come, not from those in power, but perhaps from the indignant common people." In an economic discussion with friend Stein he says, "The mere abolition of property will do no good; the Jews will gladly give up estates and everything else, as long as banks and stocks remain." Going on to Bismarck, he says, "If he had had any ideas, something could have been done after France's defeat, an alliance with the smaller states aimed at disarmament, forcing France to disarm by threatening to prolong the occupation. But that would have called for a Periclean spirit."
Whist in the evening.