Tuesday, March 23:
Cheerful rising, caused by a minor incident yesterday: I heard a moan and rushed to R., thinking he had called out; R. later discovered that it was some cats up to their tricks on the terrace. Early this morning he was still laughing about it, and, remembering how I rushed to his side though I am not supposed to walk, he says, "When you are alarmed, you could dance a ballet."
A vegetarian pamphlet leads R. to that subject over coffee; he describes what things would be like if we stopped murdering animals: "Perhaps we should have no more art, but if we were morally more secure, that would be no hardship." But he does not wish to have anything to do with the vegetarians, since they always have the utility principle in mind. When Herr v. St. says they are mostly lacking in compassion for the poor, R. replies, "It is very difficult to preserve one's compassion for other people, even for the poor, since the thought must always be in one's mind that, given the chance, they would be just as cruel as the more fortunate ones." "The only thing that still remains fascinating about the human race and is responsible for the poets' not withdrawing their attention entirely from it, is its occasional heroism, instances of which, though in a confused enough way, come to us like glimpses into a lost paradise, Alfonso's behavior in Gaeta, for example, when he spared his enemies simply because he felt sorry for the wretched people. Otherwise history is a wilderness."
Dust and wind. I drive into town, and during this time R. plays pieces from Tannhäuser to the children, is very pleased with the way they listen, and says he will do this often, for it is good, after children have seen a performance, to revive their impressions.
In the evening he talks about Weissheimer, Cornelius; I am glad that these things are being preserved in the biography, a true book of justice. How touched I was to devote to the memory of Serov the fine words which he dictated to me today. Whist in the evening.