Saturday, February 9:
R. did not have an entirely good night, but it was disturbed only by silly dreams, not bad ones; yesterday, too, he woke up laughing loudly, and told me that somewhere outside Paris he had been seeking the way to a house in which Rothschild lived, and had suddenly found himself in an avenue of cows (like a terrace of sphinxes), and these had been very smelly! Unable to find his way, he had asked someone where the house was.
"Between Blasewitz and Pillnitz," the other said. "Non, non, pas Pillnitz, c'est la maison de Rothschild." "Ah, Ferrières." "Mais non, je parlerai..." and in his vexation at not having said "je vous dirai" or "parlerai" he had woken up! This mixture of words in French and places in Saxony together with Rothschild made him and us laugh heartily.
But his foot is still painful and hinders his walking, it worries me deeply, and I do not know what to do. In the evening I take Lusch to a ball at the President's house, leave her there in the care of a friend, return home after an hour, and find R. playing Mozart's G Minor Symphony with Herr Seidl. In Herr Tappert's Musikzeitung there was a report of a performance of this symphony at the Hochschule, and T. had added the remark "There is not much in it." This dismissive comment makes R. indignant. He says of the themes of the first and second movements, "They should be set in diamonds," and adds that Beethoven had lived on them in his early works. Distress over our friends and their rash judgments, based on ignorance. To rid ourselves of this we read W. Scott. Every evening, every tranquil night is a seal on a blissful day!