Tuesday, February 7:
But R. has a restless night; he wakes up, continually pursued by dreams of my turning away from him in contempt! In the morning he blames it on his temperament, saying that anyone who puts his trust in it is exposed to continual wild-goose chases; he recalls our flight from Naples and now, on leaving the hotel.
I start the day hopefully, since at any rate things seem no worse, either with him or with Fidi; and, since it is Saint Richard's Day, I present him with Humboldt's Kawi-Sprache, which he finds amusing. He eats alone upstairs, while downstairs we celebrate Rub.'s birthday in spite of the inhospitable circumstances. The doctor visits Fidi, who still has a temperature. The doctor seems unperturbed but wants to wait until tomorrow to make up his mind. I had not told R. that the boy was in bed, but he unexpectedly comes downstairs to look for me and finds the doctor and me with Siegfried. Yesterday I was again struck by his uncanny powers of divination: I had scarcely put Siegfried to bed when he said, “Nothing will happen to Siegfried - he always has his mouth open!” It costs an effort to keep the worst thoughts away from R.
He has supper with us; Fidi, on a strict diet, falls asleep! Downstairs we attempt to read Alexis's Ist die erste Bürgerpflicht, but the vulgarity puts us off. R. goes up to his room and continues with Le Piccinino, remarking jokingly that in women's books it is always women who play the dominant role. The novel interests him, even though he recognizes its weaknesses - trivial subsidiary characters described in detail, impossible conversations. When I go into R.'s room in the evening and find it comfortably warm and nicely furnished I tell him that every time I come to him I feel as if I am entering harbor; it is a reflection in miniature of my fate, although outsiders probably imagine life with him is all misery and unrest, as it indeed might appear from the outside. He regrets that I have not furnished my own rooms like his, so that he could come to me in the same way, but he understands when I explain to him that I have no life of my own, and the children and everyone else in the house must be allowed to keep their share of me.
Wednesday, February 8:
R. had a good night, but his cough is very persistent. He is in quite good spirits; lying in bed, he is overcome by the thought of how beautiful it is in music when one instrument joins in with another; one frequently has to deny oneself something, he says, in order to achieve a climax or to ensure that a new theme makes maximum effect; these are things of which people like Marschner and Schumann have no notion. I observe that this is because they probably never saw a melody as a living form, and consequently never felt the need to give it special clothing. He spends the morning quietly reading Le Piccinino. But Fidi's temperature is rising, and when, after a somewhat generous meal (during which R. says he needs only to eat and then he stops coughing), R. meets the doctor and the latter shakes his head dubiously, R. gets into such a state that his spasms return; a short walk with me does nothing to help him, and an anxious evening leads to a wild night for him. (Siegfried's temperature has risen to 40 degrees!) However, amid all this uneasiness and worry we achieve, thanks to the girls, some contentment in the evening; Lusch tells her father about her impressions in Rome, her lunch and dinner with the cardinal, speculations on the stock exchange in which eminent people in Rome participated, producing a “crash” in France, with losses for the small people.
R. says: “With my pessimistic outlook I actually enjoy hearing things like that! Before long not a single honest person will possess a cent. And let us hope there will be no inequality in other things besides property. States will no longer be able to exist - Austria, for instance, which must now go to war, can find no money for it!” When we are talking about the Jesuits, R. asks himself whether this powerful, expert organization could be put to the service of a higher calling; he thinks not, since they would never desist from keeping the people in a state of superstition. The absence of any kind of morality, of God-fearingness - this is what strikes him as typical of the superstition imposed by them. “Excellent fellows here and there who love their master, but not a trace of religion.” Since there is a parade ground in front of the house, we are constantly hearing the blaring of trumpets: “Nobody here but the sons of Nimrod!” jokes R., who finds these childish toy-trumpet sounds quite absurd - he would prefer drums. We draw out the evening, because R. is fearful of going to bed, and talk again about my father; his bewitchment and the possibility of winning him over to us entirely; R. observes that he can easily give up his fortune and everything else, since it is all in the hands of the Princess, and live with us. Our conversation turns into a discussion of women's power over men: “They take hold of them by their vanity,” R. says. And he observes that a better relationship was discovered in the East.