Friday, May 30:
R. had a very bad night; the disturbances and apprehensions began the instant he fell asleep and continued throughout the night. Is some mistake in his diet to blame? God knows, but I am very, very worried, and in my preoccupation I have lost even my memory for his words. He reads more Carlyle, The French Revolution, with continued enjoyment.
Toward evening we drive to the Riedelsberg, where our children have been spending the day; R. is well enough to enjoy the journey home in the sunset. He is also pleased with our children. Previously Loldi reminded him of his ideal sister, and she also reminds me of family things, of mystical relationships, and we are moved to see ourselves reflected like this in our child.
In the evening Herr Rubinstein plays to us my father’s arrangement of the tarantella from La Muette de Portici; R. finds it rather too long, for it is definitely intended to create excitement. The repetitions and pauses in particular strike him as not being good, but the arrangement is excellent. A letter from my father which arrives today gives R. great pleasure; he praises the individuality of the expressions and says he never writes empty phrases, but speaks only when something has made a special impression on him, and then says something extraordinary. He says he was glad that the theater was there; every time he saw it he felt moved; nobody would ever be able to do anything like it again.