Friday, December 17:
R. had a better night, got up only once, but he is taking medicine, and this puts a strain on him. At breakfast he recalls his orchestrations and says he has never misjudged his effects; he may previously have overloaded the accompaniment for the singers, but he made no mistakes with the instruments.
In the afternoon we again go for a walk in the palace gardens, and R. tells me of his desire to know once and for all what is genuine in the Gospels and what has been inserted, “shown literally in color, red for the one, black for the other.” He says he recently glanced through the Bhagavad-Gita and was dismayed by the chaos of additions; if only one could be shown what the original was.
He works on his score but complains of lack of concentration. In the evening he talks to friend Wolz. in an earnest and fatherly way about vegetarianism, and the latter listens, but will it be of any use? Friend Rub. plays the American March very nicely and to the delight of us all, including R.
We remember Beethoven’s birthday, and I read reminiscences of him by a Herr Louis Schlosser, which remind us of R.’s short story and interest us very much, in spite of some curious features. When we express our admiration of Beeth. for going to see the young man, R. says: “He was utterly delighted with him for bringing the Duke’s subscription; usually people bring something useless; this really was something. It is like us.”
When we embrace at our first parting, R. sings the joyful theme of Tristan’s reunion with Isolde, then says, “That is not the joy of holding out and winning victories, but it’s joy, all the same.” “Rather, joy in defeat,” I observe.