Thursday, December 12:
R. had a tolerable night; he got up only once. He is now working on his article; he says it is actually absurd to say anything more about the festival, but he wants to do it for Wolzogen's sake. I am now reading Turgenev's book on his recommendation, and with great interest, too; we talk a lot about it.
In the evening Herr R[ubinstein] is here again; R. plays the Idyll with him as a piano duet, quite wonderful. Afterward he enlarges upon the piano scores, which are intended only as intelligent indications, and one must take care not to break the melodic line by putting in all the middle voices, but try always to provide the outlines.
When we are alone, R. wants to know why, "when really we want to stay silent. Fate insists on turning us both into downright chatterers!" He talked a lot with Herr R. about all sorts of things - Raff and Hellmesberger and [Amalie] Materna. Regarding the Idyll he says: "I ought not to have published it. Everything one publishes is cast before swine, but now and again a blind hen comes along and finds the pearl." (During the afternoon he wrote to Frl. Uhlig.) When we are upstairs, R. says of the Idyll, "It is the only work of mine which comes straight from my life; I could write a program for it down to the last detail."