Thursday, February 17:
"Eva was born today," I say to R. after we have talked about all kinds of things; after leaving the room, he comes back, embraces me, and says that I surely did not believe that he had forgotten the day! At 1 o'clock we give Eva our good wishes, first of all in my gray room, while R. plays the "Prize Song" in his. At lunch he reminds me that I once called her the child of loyalty. We talk a lot about the Odyssey, since Jouk. has given Eva a fine edition of it, and we go through many of the splendid features of this divine work. Over coffee we talked of Eva's birth and my inner happiness in spite of everything. Then R. recalls a childhood experience in Possendorf, how he went for a walk with his comrades, and one of them, Bernhard Lingg, son of the owner of the Lingg baths, threw stones at a bird, a yellow bunting, and R. can still see the bird after it was hit, fluttering and at last sinking down. We go for a walk, R. and I, actually - since it is muddy on the paths - on the ice, which is still firm, but no longer good for skating. Much about Cervantes and Shakespeare. The two girls in their confirmation-candidate mood R. calls the two Vidrieras - he says they look as if they were made of glass! When we return home, we part tenderly, and after a while, as I am changing my clothes in the bedroom, he comes up and takes leave of me again. We end the story with great delight, and the anecdote about the tail reminds R. of his gambling night when he was a child; he tells Jouk. about it and says: "How must I have looked then, poor boy? And what an expression on my face when I won again!" I observe that in this single incident one could have foretold his entire fate.
When we are alone, he plays the piano and says the sustained tone with the pedal down always pleases him - it is like calling into a valley. Previously he talked about the Germans and their lack of talent, the wretchedness of the anti-Jewish agitation which is relying on Bismarck (he still feels his misunderstood remark to Dr. Forster might be at the bottom of that), the impending mass emigration. In the morning, talking about Schiller, he said that he was the most serious and profound of them all; in the evening he says that Schiller really did manage to write good plays, whereas Goethe had only dabbled in it, though he was undoubtedly the greater poet. Regarding Grillparzer, he says he saw a play of his in the Konigstadter Theater in Berlin which pleased him; at that time Sch.'s influence was still predominant; then came, under Schlegel's influence, the trochees and the tragedies of fate, and all was lost. [Added in margin: "Jouk. told me that R. said that Heyse had made the drama impossible. I said that they should just write a good comedy - that would certainly please people, beside R.'s works - but R. had felt they were incapable of doing it. Of Kleist he said that in relation to Schiller he was like Schubert to Beethoven."] When we go upstairs, renewed memories of former times; he observes that Hans has never got beyond the age of 15-17, never become a man, whereas Fidi would reach fulfillment only as an adult man. I observe that for R. himself this age of fulfillment would be old age, since only then would all that he is become apparent. "We shall remain very much alone," he says, and, jokingly, "Isolani" - a play on words, such as he enjoys making - he calls Marke Lomellino, from Lummel [lout], and when I tell him that Dr. Strecker is demanding Parsifal, he says, "I suppose because he has vorgestreckt [advanced money]." Yesterday he said to me jokingly, "You must have a very bad conscience toward me, since you always give in and adapt yourself to me" - and this makes me feel very solemn, as if I have no right even to the happiness of being permitted to obey him! And for me the main burden of my life is that, though I should like to surrender myself utterly all the time, I still hold firm, desist even from expressing many things, in order not to disturb the tranquillity which is better for him than ecstasy. But yesterday I had to tell him that on the night of Eva's birth he spoke a word to me which transported me beyond all the sufferings of mind and body; he wanted to know what it was, I could not say it - for you, my Eva, let it be written down here, as a blessing on you: "I have never loved before." This is what he said, showing me the full extent of his love. "Good night, you big and pretty girls," he said tonight to these two beings who have so flourished beneath his star.