Wednesday, February 24:
A good night, lovely deep sleep such as I have not known for a long time.
Yesterday R. and I talked about how one sometimes felt the urge to confide in another person. Then he said he believed that things would still turn out favorably for us, we must have our star somewhere. For the rest one must just ponder and wait to see which form of suffering one had chosen for oneself.
R. writes to the King, 16 pages, and I ink in two pages of the score; I see the notes as sacred runes which take on color beneath my hand. After lunch R. improvises. Then he tells me that a bad dream had impelled him during the night to send a telegram to Dr. Lang, telling him to make no use of the information he had given him. My alarm over this made R. regret having told me about it. After he has gone out I write him why I considered the information so important.
His improvisation, he went on from the Lohengrin Prelude to motives from the Nibelungenring, casts a spell once more over my whole soul. My soul is like a budding flower which opens only to the rays of his music.
In the evening the conclusion of Twelfth Night.
In the evening long reflection concerning our situation and how we should deal with it.