Wednesday, January 24:
Our conversation leads us to Neumann's suggestion of performing the Nibelungen here in Venice. R. advises against it. He then goes to work on his preface; last night, before undressing, he came to me to say how beautiful he finds the ending to [Stein's] Cornelia. Around lunchtime he calls me and reads to me the beginning of his letter to Stein, which moves me to tears. Since I say jokingly, "You must always put it all into words," he jokes back, saying I am never content with what he does.
In the gondola he recalls Falstaff's "Tell him I am deaf," laughs, and observes that this is what he always feels like saying when someone speaks to him; then actors, who put everything into words, and he thinks of the terrible meaning this free speaking acquires in the figure of Hamlet. Yesterday he remarked how foolish it was to ascribe a general philosophical meaning to "To be or not to be" — it was just Hamlet speaking.
It is very cold, a north wind; R. looks for a buckle for the fur he has given me; we cannot find one, and we freeze terribly. On our return home, we are much concerned about Lusch's condition; she is in bed. I consult Dr. Keppler. In consequence, a conversation with him about the present position of women, which R. describes as an unnatural one. Many, many great worries, alas!
R. tells me about a young couple who committed suicide for love, and he adds, "This is still the main tragedy of life." He recalls how the subject is dealt with by Lise and Bärbel in Faust, the relentlessness of common people. We are diverted from these dismal thoughts by my remarking how pretty his room (the blue grotto) is, and this leads us to his desire for colours, for perfumes, the latter having to be very strong since he takes snuff. "Taking snuff is really my soul," he says very drolly. At the start, he describes how gently glowing colours influence his mood, but later in the conversation he denies any connection and says very emphatically, "These are weaknesses."
Then we recall the roof-raising ceremony in Bayreuth (1873), and he expresses his amazement about the theater, "that it is there, that I brought it into being with my scores!" In connection with the roof-raising ceremony and the dizziness caused by heights, R. tells of a mountain-climbing expedition in which K. Ritter got into an indescribable state. "I already saw him lying at the bottom of the ravine, thought to myself, 'Now you've got his mother to deal with,' started writing the letter" — which amuses us enormously!