Saturday, January 21:
R. had a good night’s rest. In the morning we again go through Lusch’s letter, which has an enclosure from her father confessor; great vexation over the latter, and a witticism about great men who have no heart makes R. indignant. We discuss Lusch’s fate. — At 12 the fine weather tempts R. to a walk in the English Gardens with the children; I go to meet them. Our lunch is cheerful, the letter from the wine merchant Krote makes us laugh, but the fatigue arising from yesterday’s outing shows, and vexation with hotel life is growing fast. (Since, in response to R.’s request to take out this and that, Herr Ragusa was prepared to deduct only a minimum, R. has the whole bill paid, but he is no longer speaking to him.) We leave some cards, to provide an excuse for a drive. As I am talking to Jouk. about his departure, R. bursts out: why is he not told anything? It is a false kind of consideration, and he then goes on to talk very bitterly about Lusch, my father, the Princess, and soon asks to go home. I advise Jouk. to explain to him calmly why it is necessary for him to return; he does this as soon as we arrive home, and a telegram to Plett[ung] and Schwab, “Werbel and Schwemel,” is drafted, asking whether they really have anything to show. (Jouk. had already wished to leave on Wednesday night, saying nothing to R. but just leaving a letter behind; however, R. instinctively guessed it, talked of evil omens, and, when we told him about the curious twittering of a bird, which we could not find, in the chimney before supper, interpreted this as a warning against departure, so that Jouk. remained silent, impressed by these daemonic utterances. He was then obliged to go to Bagheria with us, but now it has been decided that we shall give up Sicily and visit Lusch, and it is that which I touched on today.) — In the evening I read aloud parts of a lecture on Palermo by A. Springer; R. is fairly interested in the historical aspect, but when it gets to a description of the buildings, he grows restless, goes out, comes back again, sits down in the adjoining room, withdraws into himself, says to himself, “I shall not have the heart to do it,” asks me, when I enter the room, to take no notice of him, and at last, when I return, shows me his letters to Lusch and to Gross. I am silent at first, but then I tell him that I find this letter easier to understand than the one which was sent last year. I tell him that my trust in the girl is now so great that I hoped from all this to achieve what was best for her. And gradually he calms down, and we return to the children in almost cheerful spirits and talk for a long time with Jouk. R. jokingly calls me Saint Catherine, so calm about everything that one can scarcely follow me. Then we talk about the children, who were today strangely muddle-headed, like a flock of sheep, R. says, and, joking, we release our friend and go off to bed.