Friday, December 10:
Gale and gray skies. And with them for R., as reading matter, Schelling’s transcendental philosophy. But around lunchtime R. comes in with the Fl. Blätter and shows us the final page: performance of an opera in the presence of “the master.”
We go for a walk in spite of the weather. R. at first puts up with the raging wind and the lack of light, but gradually he becomes impatient. We talked about Hans’s silence; when we return to Wahnfried to leave Marke, the groom hands me a letter from him; we continue our walk to see friend Joukowsky, who has installed himself very comfortably in the Reichsadler. R. is designing a studio for J. I read the letter and show it to R. — solemn feelings.
At home R. brings up the question of his adopting all the children. Solemn feelings, fears of erysipelas; to cheer him up a little, I put on the Scheherazade dress, and that does restore his spirits. Cervantes does the rest, I read the story aloud, and we take a friendly leave of this dreary day on which the forces of the soul had literally to fight a duel with the external powers. When, as in our case, they conquer, then it can be counted a blessing.
R. tells us about Ireland, where once again a policeman has been murdered, and he says England may be in danger of war, since the Irish in America are supporting their compatriots. A Jew, R. said, can only be demanding, greedy, cunning; if he were not those things, he would have to look very touching and worthy of pity.