Saturday, September 2:
In the morning R. says to me, “I was already composing in the early hours.” “And what?” “The hawthorn tree no longer pricks.” Written down? “Oh, no, things like that are done in the head.”
At breakfast R. tells me again how pleased and touched he was yesterday when Fidi ran a long stretch toward him. He says he looked splendid. And so outside everything is worry and annoyance, inside all happiness and joy.
R. works; toward noon our friend returns from Mount Pilatus, and we have a happy lunch together. In the afternoon Hey, the singing teacher, who tells us that the Wagner Society in Munich is coming along well. Lovely moonlit night; R. gives L. Bucher Art and Politics to take to Bismarck.
In the night we are awakened by Rus’s barking; a “crazy woman,” as Jakob says, was prowling around Tribschen. R. thinks she was crazy enough to want to steal something.