Thursday, August 22:
They all say R. has not looked so well for years, and Niemann could not get over his astonishment at his youthfulness and his humor. I alone am worried, though I, too, cannot resist R.’s gaiety. When I tell him about a woman who was suffering from a toothache, he says, “Then it is a toothache out of sympathy, fellow feeling, for she has false teeth!” [Another, untranslatable, example omitted.]
I fear all the huge exertions which lie in front of him. Lusch again has a terrible toothache, the poor, dear child. R. thinks I should take her to a dentist in a big city.
Now is the time for bird impressions. Yesterday the children found a young lark in the grass, placed it in an empty nest in a tree, and fed it. Today the nest was empty; last night a bat flew into our apartment, which frightened me very much, though I know such fears are foolish; and our hen canary is ill.
Around midday Niemann comes to say goodbye; he kisses R.’s hand, which obliges R. to offer him his cheek. As we were driving into town yesterday, R. recalled his experiences with this singer, how he betrayed him in Paris, how, when R. was once singing to some friends this same Walküre which Niemann now sings so enthusiastically, the tenor giggled and could not wait for it to finish.
“Well,” R. says, “that was all so long ago that he now seems like a different person to me. It is all as good as forgotten, but I shall never get emotional about him; he can say what he likes.”
R. works on his essay and corrects his biography. Lulu’s teeth somewhat better; the elder children please me by giving lessons to the little ones.
In the evening young Rubinstein very much bothers R.; these young people are a great problem, the way they do not know what to do with themselves.
In the evening much joy in Fidi, who caused us concern during the day with his tiredness, but gets up lively and fresh after a sleep of four hours and enchants us.