Friday, April 8:
R. slept well, and he works. At lunch we have Herr Francke, and the final details of the London enterprise are discussed. R. then goes out, unknown to me, and returns home with a chest spasm and great indignation over the climate here. By evening he has gradually recovered; the first two movements of Beethoven’s E-flat major quartet are very nicely played by Rub., to R.’s great delight, then we go on to The Flying Dutchman, and the tempi are wrong - R. sings the Dutchman’s first monologue movingly.
When we are alone again, chatting together, I confess to him that, in order to enjoy the quartet, I have to be free of all preoccupations, whereas his works affect me even in a whirlpool of worries. Now, for instance, with thoughts of Berlin and many other difficulties, I can only feel in a dreamlike way how beautiful this is. He agrees with me and repeats that sublime things such as these are for future times of bliss, should they ever come.