Friday, January 21:
R. slept well, and he goes to his work. But when I go down to lunch I find him in poor spirits. His finger is hurting him, and a letter from Herr Batz annoys him and makes him regret having spoken even a single word; he says that by doing so one places oneself on the same level as these people.
Our conversation at lunch leads us to various women, and R. sums up his repugnance for them thus: “Very gifted, but they have no souls, but the same can be said of some men. No person can mean anything to me, and that is why I have created a family for myself. Only those who fit in with the family mean anything to me.” Over coffee he reads to us with much amusement two anecdotes from an anti-Jewish newspaper, one about Rossi, the other about the parson Delitzsch, whom he once knew. “The fact that D. was a Jew explains many things to me as well; he was an unpleasant character,” he says.
Somewhat boldly, I tell him that when I join him, however poor in spirits, after we spend a little while together he is again in a good and cheerful mood. “We should come together to die,” he replies earnestly. We go out, the dogs almost knock R. over in their joy, and in this devotion of animals to him I see one of the signs of R.’s wonderful connection with Nature. Animals like me very much, too, but it seems to me that they greet him as if no division had ever taken place. When we return home, R. feels Marke’s ear and finds that it is still stiff: “Things like this don’t just go away,” he says. “It is like my finger, but he puts up with it better.” I: “He has no Parsifal to compose.” “That’s true,” says R., “and every page calls for some new invention.”
A letter from Frau Pusinelli pleases him, she announces her daughter’s engagement. He works, is looking forward to leaving the epic part behind him and starting on the drama with Parsifal’s entrance. In the evening we read the very charming story “La Guerre des Turcomans” to the end.
R. then looks at the map again, and as he is doing so, I recall what he said today at lunch, that among the peoples of the earth it is always the stupidest tribes which are destined to rule over the others, the strongest arrogantly placing their paws on everything: the Macedonians in Greece, the Moors among the Arabs, the Prussians among the Germans, the Turks in Asia. He praises Count Gobineau highly and takes great delight in the story “Les Amants de Kandahar.”
While looking at the map, I also recall that he recently described the Gulf Stream as the brutal element which ordains everything: “Then everything depends on whether one goes along with or resists it.” As always with him, physics and metaphysics merge, rather like the memory of Max and Jupiter in Schiller’s Wallenstein.
This morning he told me how musically Fidi said, “Adieu, Papa,” as he left him after their shower. He complains about the tar ointment and the fact that he can now detect only bad smells.