Sunday, December 21:
In the morning R. recalls with a laugh his "vanity" dream: he had wanted to sing Amfortas and trained his voice for that purpose, as a friend of ours does when he sings Schubert songs!
First walk, blue spectacles, blue veil, in the palace gardens; it is nice, but we revile the winter! In the afternoon R. reads Horace, beginning with the story of his life, and he says our world began with the Romans rather than the Greeks.
In the evening Herr Rub. comes and plays us Beethoven's Sonata, Op. no - not entirely to our satisfaction, but it is a heavenly moment when R., who is sitting opposite me on the little sofa next to the piano, suddenly crawls along the floor to me and tries to kiss my foot. I seize his head, and he slips back into his seat, whispering, "He didn't notice anything." Afterward a discussion about the interpretation of these works, which R. says he numbers among the mysteries.