Monday, November 7:
R. had a restless night, since he had taken medicine, but he is looking well. He arranges his worktable in the salon, and the situation pleases him. In the afternoon we drive to Monreale.
Added on the next page, under Tuesday: “Yesterday, on the journey to Monreale, R. noticed a small and very independent poodle, a favorite breed of his, and in the evening he is still thinking of the little creature, having been struck by its intelligence.”
Sublime impression: “What people they must have been to build such a thing!” R. exclaims. We are enchanted by the cloisters. The valley of oranges is like a fairy tale, and when we return home we feel that nothing less than Shakespeare will do.
We begin Henry VI, Act I, the children showing great interest. As he reads, R. looks so wonderfully young that I have to tell him so. And when we are discussing this first act, he says, “He is the greatest of them all.”
“What images!” he exclaimed as he read Exeter’s “Like captives bound to a triumphant car.” And at the conclusion of the evening he sat down at the piano to show me how homogeneous is the recitative of Agathe’s aria in Der Freischütz, how its sole purpose is to lead in.