Wednesday, November 8:
R. took medicine today, but it puts a strain on him. In the morning he talks to me at length about his complaint and explains to me what an unduly active part the imagination plays in it. Then, at breakfast, he talks again about Hans; he deplores my marriage, then says Nature had never given him anything completely his own, he had always taken things over from someone else, and he mentions Minna and myself! Oh, how I wish from the very depths of my soul that a being without taint had devoted herself to him!
Hurt as I of course am by such a statement, my dominant feeling is happiness that he can make it, that he feels so free, is so certain of me, that he can let it all pour out, and everything that emanates from him is good! We talk about his productions, his art, how necessary to it a fine voice and relaxed and unexaggerated gestures. Then we talk about the situation in France, the stupid misunderstandings arising from obtuseness: in Lyons a man took up the chalice during Mass and emptied out its contents, instead of ousting the priest and respecting the symbol. He reads Stein’s dialogues with enjoyment. At 1 o’clock we go for a walk together in the direction of the Ghetto Vecchio and to our astonishment emerge near S. Marciliano! These outings always raise R.’s spirits. But all the same he does not feel well, and when we come to Saint Mark’s Square, he has to sit down, under the portal. Once we are in the gondola he feels better. We are constantly discussing what can be done about it! I believe he is demanding too much of his stomach with such a variety of things.
In the evening we are visited by Ada Pinelli, whom R. finds very pleasant. Her memories of Princess Wittg. bring this horrible product of Jewish Catholicism home to R. and me in a most sinister way.