Sunday, August 13:
R. said yesterday evening, “The reason why the great masters cannot be imitated is that each of them takes a path of his own and follows this to its utmost limits; if it could be pursued further, the master would have done so himself.”
Lovely warm day; I copy for the King. Deep sorrow over a letter from M. Meysenbug; she relates that Hans hates the Germans so much that he would like to forget his German, and that last spring he was so agitated that his friends were seriously worried about him.
This the wound which will never heal. Some days ago I dreamed that I had to convey the news of his death, written down in pencil on a piece of paper, to the children. The whole day, God help me, is overshadowed by this thought; I fight against it as much as I can. R. helps me, especially with his love and his playing, Götterdämmerung. I copy for the King; R. sends off his Siegfried to the Wesendoncks, Willes, and Mendèses.