Tuesday, December 7:
Work with the children. R. at his sketches; he complains of feeling constantly unwell. Letter from Prof. Nietzsche: he is coming to us at Christmas.
In the evening R. reads me Tristram Shandy, in which the diatribes against solemnity give me much enjoyment, reminding me of those bigots, the Schumannians. Spoke with R. about Mendelssohn. Comparison to a crystal: the Hebrides Overture, so clear, so smooth, so melodious, as definite in form as a crystal, but also just as cold. Such an enormous talent as Mendelssohn's is frightening; it has no place in the development of our music. A landscape painter, incapable of depicting a human being.
I am occupying myself with Semper's textile art, which makes R. laugh and call me "you aesthetic soul." In the morning R. reproached me for not going to him when he was at work; it had ruined his mood. Concern about this.