Wednesday, March 8:
(Written at Camastra.) [A sentence based on untranslatable word play omitted.]
At breakfast we have serious thoughts about whether we should not after all send Siegfried to school, since he has no contact with other boys. Yesterday, for a joke, Fidi arranged his elder sisters’ hair, and that alarmed R. greatly.
At lunch and over coffee R. complains of his condition, his ailments, but he and I go on a lovely drive to Parco Monreale, thinking of Garibaldi’s expedition, for this is the road the 1,000 took, except that it has now been nicely leveled. We delight in the fresh green which the rain has brought, the blossoming blackthorn, even, indeed, the monastic cells which in the distance look like vultures’ nests and increase in numbers as we come closer to Monreale. The village itself amuses R. greatly; among other things he points out to me a gander on a balcony, surveying the scene like a grumpy paterfamilias. Also darned laundry, touching that such things are still mended: “The mama no doubt spends her winter evenings on improvements.” These and the view into the distance, in short, things both great and small, distract him.
In the evening we have visitors. For a while R. has quite a good conversation in German with Prof. Salinas on archaeology (the excavations at Olympia) and the archaeologists Springer, Brunn, etc. The Prof. confesses to me that he finds R. very difficult to understand on account of his rapid transitions from seriousness to humor. He ends the evening by singing Italian melodies, for the “Picture” from Parsifal does not please him this time, particularly since Rub. is still unable to grasp the variations in the tempo. But R. is very tired, in fact agitated, at the end of it. We remain alone together for a while until he calms down a little. He sang Moses’s phrase in the crossing of the Red Sea quite wonderfully.