Saturday, May 22:
Wonderful night! The gardeners and decorators hammer and knock, contrary to all agreements. My concern for R.'s sleep expands into a conscious concern for his whole existence, into feelings of concern that I am unworthy of him and the task of caring for him, and my feeling, growing ever more intense with the outward noise, turns into a fervent prayer within me; with this it seems I might hope to overcome not only this night noise, but also all other disturbances, and I see the cherished reflections of this victory in his sleep, which lasts until the morning. A shining morning brings him my greeting.
At about 8 o'clock the children bring him theirs, a greeting from the stars, and amid tears and sobs our souls intermingle, while the children hear from their father things they will never forget. He rests, we move the festivities from the hall to the salon and arrange roses, picture, and fabrics, so that R., entering the salon around 11 o'clock, is delighted; he spends an hour there, looks at Loldi's drawings, and when I go to greet him, I am permitted to see his happiness in his transfigured appearance and hear it in his very moving words.
I had linked the Last Supper and Parsifal, the suns and the letters of his name, also the year '15 of this century; we invite a 14th guest and change the form. All spoke well and with deep emotion, and R. replied, repeating what he had already told me in the morning, why he is now superstitious, whereas previously he had always liked to think of himself as the 13th. He does not wish to spite his good fortune, he says, and he mentions 7 as the number which means everything to him, the children and the two of us, all that is well disposed toward him derives from that; about this relationship he says many things which you, my children, have certainly noted, and which were accompanied by the tears of all present.
Over coffee we hear "Mignonne," sung by Pepino. Then a rest, a walk to the palm tree, and finally a trip on the sea. Five boats rock their way along the blessed shores, bathed in a moonlight which seems to wrap us in gentle warmth, Naples glittering in the distance, Vesuvius like a dream image behind it, yet more blissful than all outward appearances the harmony of souls binding us all together.
We return home to the illumined salon, and the day and the evening are brought to a close with the choruses from Parsifal, sung by our children, our friends Plüddemann, Rubinstein, Humperdinck, and R.