Sunday, November 14:
R. slept well, and a fine sunny day puts him in good spirits. He writes to the King, then goes for a walk with Jouk., meets Frau Vogl, and says teasingly to me that he embraced her.
Members of the orchestra, singers, Knights of the Grail in the Orlando Lasso, where it was very cheerful and companionable, he says. We meet again in the theater; As You Like It is being performed, and the first scene grips us at once with all Shakespeare's usual power. Unfortunately the performance then gets so bad that we leave after the second act. R. is above all indignant with Possart's Touchstone, in which he sees all the usual Jewish qualities. He says Touchstone must be in the nature of a sharp and spirited old courtier, "something like Schleinitz," but instead of that we saw him lazy, expansive, speaking not one natural word. Twelve years ago I saw a charming performance of the play, and now this!
We return home in lovely moonlight, stop to look at the Kleine Residenz garden, then, back at home, forget the performance, thank goodness, and think only of the play. I was particularly struck by the lifelike scene between the women and the young man, Rosalind's return ("Did you call, sir?"), but above all the description of Jaques's words to the wounded stag; this description, entirely lacking in sentimentality and in its irony revealing more emotion than is actually expressed, fills me with admiration for the masterly use of language and the faithfulness of the characterization. I tell R. my feelings; he is glad that my enthusiasm has the power to overcome my disgust, and the evening passes in good spirits.