Sunday, May 1:
Deceptiveness of the foehn, one moment fine weather, the next rain. Loldi sees a robin and says, “It’s like Mama’s shawl.” Countess Bassenheim visits me, survey of the world, in which there are enough curious things going on (France-Rome plebiscite—infallibility—England-Greece Marathon—murder of the embassy people—international conspiracy—in Germany the three J’s). We read to the Countess yesterday’s letter from Richter, in which he first says that since his dismissal the number of Jews has increased by 45,000 (!), then that at a performance of Die Meistersinger a Jew shouted after the Overture, “Oh, the poor orchestra!,” hissed, and then, rebuked by his neighbor, joined in the applause himself, saying, “You see, the beautiful bits I applaud, too, but there are only one or two beautiful bits—or let’s say three.”
Lunch with the children. Later I read them Sicilian fairy tales. Then I go for a walk in wind and rain with R. In the evening R. says: “When one day in my old age I write Die Sieger, I shall give it a prelude in which the first part of the story (in which the Chandala maiden spurns Ananda) will be told. Only music can convey the mysteries of reincarnation.”