Wednesday, April 5:
R. had a good night, even though he woke up once with the words “I am dying - oh, how beautiful!” There is a heavy thunderstorm, and he sees a flash of lightning which, he says in describing it to us, drew “passionate” signs in the air, and he then dreams he saw the name “Nadar” in the sky (the well-known Parisian who wrote his name in zigzag letters on all the walls).
At breakfast he mentions that he is expecting royalties for this quarterly period, but they will be small; Carmen is providing him with competition. Yesterday he expressed surprise that his old works were still bringing him in so much money, and he wonders whether the new ones will follow the same path. Before lunch he goes for a walk in the garden opposite and is amused by a “scuffle” among the monkeys.
Then at lunch the question of upbringing is discussed; R. feels that punishment is quite unnecessary - either the child has a bad heart, in which case nothing matters, or one is born a good child of love, and then everything rights itself of its own accord. Then he speaks of male and female; since he calls it “boy and girl,” I ask jokingly whether I fare well in it: “Yes, in the second part of your life, but not in the first, for in a woman's love for a man I see the first breaking of the Will, in the longing - as Schopenhauer so magnificently puts it - to produce the Saviour.” I recall Diotima being born again in beauty. “Certainly Plato knew it,” R. says, “but he made the mistake of wanting to be constructive.”
Over coffee we plan our homeward journey, then R. tells us things from the world of politics, that Bismarck is making concessions to the Clerical party in order to win their support for the tobacco monopoly, and that in France ras bon sens [plain common sense], bonnets de coton [cotton bonnets], and les sabots [clogs] now prevail, which heartens him; for example, they did not wish to dissolve the concordat. We go for a little walk, first in town, but we find it unpleasant on account of the ugly, crippled people, so we go into the garden, which always delights us.
In the evening whist, and then between R. and me a long conversation about love and, from there, the realization of ideas. It begins with R.'s pointing out to me the moonlight on the sea and adding how little such a sight now means to him; he mentions Schopenhauer's similar remark and stresses how wise he was to confine himself to criticism; invention leads to foolishness. We then go on to Christianity, which in its pure form was too fragile to gain ground and, in accommodating itself to the world, could only give rise to inconsequentiality. We come to see how this realization - that an idea cannot give rise to a corresponding deed, that such a deed can only be released by an urge - which appears to be such a bitter one, can nevertheless lead to serenity: it draws one away from the outside world and bids one dig deeper within oneself. We see that the Saviour had no community in the true sense of the word, and that he allowed himself to be crucified for the few who committed themselves to him. “That is sublime,” R. exclaims. But the need to inform, to show others the truth one has perceived, that exists, he says - but it means monasteries! Feelings and thoughts pass to and fro between us, until it is just glances we are exchanging, and we go off to bed.
“I did the right thing, another the wrong,” he says in our bedroom, thinking of Hans and his marriage. He mentions often during the day that, on account of the wrong done to him, Hans now expects to be absolved from responsibility. Stein's enthusiastic response to the school idea, which R. has already more or less abandoned, leads him to ask: “Why does our son need other boys to play with? Isn't he getting to know the world best in this way? Let's leave it to Fate. Schools are for creatures who ought never to have been born!” he exclaims, and says that he must expect only an absurd response to his high-minded appeal, if he ever makes it. Support for his works comes only from Jews and young people, he said recently. An exclamation from Cervantes which he frequently uses - “Oh, you persecutor of God and all his saints!” - again makes him laugh today and leads him to say that he can clearly see the facial resemblance between those two, Shakespeare and Cervantes. R. concluded our evening conversation with the remark that Parsifal ought certainly to be his final work, since in these Knights of the Grail he has given expression to his idea of a community. Die Sieger could only repeat this in a weak and insignificant way.