Monday, October 13:
R. got up once and is somewhat run down; today he wrote letters - to Merz about a mistaken interpretation of Herr Jager's attitude toward the school, and then to Messrs. Voltz and Batz. His tongue hurts, and he looks worn out at lunch - with him the slightest little thing immediately betrays itself in this way. The doctor comes and files the tooth which has been causing the inflammation, and everything is all right again, the wonted good humor and the gleaming eyes restored.
In the evening the conclusion of Twelfth Night and a story about Minna and her family to the children. Their sympathy; R. says he really does not know how he stood it all: "It could not have continued, either." Of the house in which he was born he says, "The white lion turned red with rage, and the red one white with alarm."
We talk of going on with the biography in Naples; I am delighted, but R. says only if he is not too much taken up by other things; the affinities of music and the other arts, all sorts of curious things are going through his head. In the evening I see him suddenly come to a halt beside his bed: "A silly theme - I don't yet know whether it will be of any use or not." He continues ruling his score in the afternoon and says he could now dictate the orchestration, so clear is it in his mind.