Saturday, March 19:
R. had a good night, came back in the morning to Saint-Saëns’s remarks against him, asking himself what might be the cause. Does he really believe that he, R., desires success in France, or does he pretend to believe it, or does he want to prevent R.’s works from being performed?
R. works on his score, is pleased with what he has understood, and he says how quickly his works become strangers to him. Letter from Lusch to R., who insists on believing that it was I who suggested it. We go for a walk, R. and I, in the palace gardens, since one is more sheltered from the wind there.
In the evening R. reads aloud Calderón’s El médico de su honra, and its impact is so marked that R. exclaims, “What fools we are not just to keep on rereading these tremendously rare great poets!” Much then on the subject of jealousy; one can understand Don Gutierre. (Riddle at lunch: What is silver in front, gold behind? Mama! - On account of my hair.)