Thursday, December 29:
A good night for R., but all the same a chest spasm on rising. He soon recovers, however, and we have a merry breakfast in the conservatory. We cheerfully discuss his outburst against visual artists, recall the angry scenes which so offended Nietzsche, and R., remembering Jouk., goes out onto the terrace in his dressing gown to call him up to our room. Since he is unsuccessful, he sends a servant to summon him, and then says merrily, “My wife believes you are offended,” which leads to an amiable conversation. He goes off to his work, and at lunch he talks about Nap.’s introduction of the Schleppcour and his impatient fury because it took so long!
At lunch Herr Ragusa brings Jouk. a telegram, remarking that it must contain good news, or he would not have brought it. Jouk. reads it, does not understand it, and hands it to me, and I have to impart what is in it [news of the death of Karl Brandt; see notes]. After the first somber surprise there follow reflections on this stroke of fate. “He has fallen into practically the same grave as Offenbach,” R. remarks bitterly, and in the course of further observations he says, “I know that his son will be able to take over, indeed I was even advised to entrust things to him in the first place, but he was the only reliable man I had.” And we go through all our experiences with Brandt. “It is all so stupid!” he exclaims. Before that, despondently, “It was not necessary.” It reminds me of Schnorr’s death, and R. says to me, “I, too, was thinking of that.”
We go for a drive after he has had a short rest; before that, over coffee, his thoughts turned to the uncertainties of life: “I shall consider carefully how things can be brought to a swift close.” He thinks of Fidi in this connection, and that there could be a sudden disaster. “It is all so depressing!” We drive to the Villa Florio to see the owl, then the Strada della Libertà. R. returns in somewhat better spirits, and even receives two calls with me. In the evening we play whist, and when we are alone and think of his dying in harness but not in pursuit of his vocation in Bayreuth, R. says, “Oh, one can look at it in whatever way one likes, it is still terrible.”