Thursday, March 3:
R. had a good night; the telegram from Frau Lucca amuses him, and he has it answered in Italian. He puts Pott's book aside and is vexed at having now to write music for the scene painters (transformation scene in the 1st act). At lunch he jokes about the Bible lessons, makes the other children laugh, but Loldi weeps. I mention yesterday's La dama duende, observing that the characters give the impression of a shadow play; R. says yes, and one in which the confusions into which they fall are turned by one of them to good, to the breaking of the will.
Since, to look up something for R., I spend much time in the morning searching through Indian literature, our conversation is much concerned with India. But over coffee R. talks about the Boers and says he has joined the committee set up to support them, at present looking after the wounded. And he talks of a recent perfidious act on the part of the English, though it has been of no help to them, for they were beaten by the Boers in spite of their superior numbers. R. says the Boers come from the same stock which gave the Spaniards so much trouble.
In fine sunshine we set out on the highway to the Eremitage: 'On Kunigunde the heat comes from under' - guess who said that, R. says to me. 'Schnappauf,' he continues, 'and he added, I didn't notice it.' I remember Saint Kunigunde and her walk over the red-hot grill, and we are pleased with this folk saying, which combines nature with religion. Pleasure, too, in the theater: it looks like Valhalla, says R. I enjoy a little triumph when R. tells me I was right about Perugia; the view and the colors and lines of the hills are finer than in Siena - he had just not wanted to admit it to himself.
We separate on the homeward journey, R. returns home with Marke, I go to Frau Berr's with Molly; when I reach home, Marke is unusually affectionate toward me. R. tells me that he kept on giving him long, long looks as he went indoors, as if asking him where I was, since I always return with him.
In the evening friend Wolz. Much about Indian wisdom, R. reads aloud the final conversation from the Upanishads; then we talk about races and the formation of the earth with reference to Gleizes' theory, which gives him hope, and to various things in Jacolliot. [Added in margin: 'In the course of his diatribe against history, R. mentions the Assyrians, whose carvings in the Louvre and the British Museum had filled him with amazement and admiration.'] Then indignation from R. about the way our scholars treat Indian matters, and against the whole school of history. When we are alone and continue talking about the unfathomably deep wisdom of the Indians, I ask R. whether he does not feel that they are nevertheless at a disadvantage compared with Christians, appear indeed even petty: they sought to arrange and regulate the world, whereas Christianity leads us away from it. He agrees with me; and during our walk he had already told me to what reprehensible lengths the Brahmans went in order to hoodwink the poor, despised common people. Yesterday R. talked about the symbolism in his works, saying that there is nothing of that kind in Shakespeare, for it lies in the nature of music; the fact that Calderon made use of symbols is a bad thing, for it brings him nearer to opera.