Tuesday, July 13:
R. slept well and praises sea baths. Then America again: “I am already looking forward to our fortune!” he says with a laugh. He works on his article and tells me that he will soon be dictating to me again. But he is suffering from heat blisters and also complaining of a soreness in his nose, though he dismisses the latter with a joke, saying out loud to it, “One impulse art thou conscious of, at best, oh, never seek to know the other!”
We go to the beach; R. is delighted by Eva’s swimming, but as for himself, it does not seem to do any good, he has congestions in the evening. Before the bath he dictated to me a letter to Dr. Jenkins about his journey next September.
In the evening Herr Rub. plays the finale of the C Minor Symphony to us; R. is not very happy, either with the execution (the triplets never expressive enough) or with the arrangement. He feels that the figurations obscure the themes and that much in the manner of writing for the piano is contrary to symphonic style. I realize that this symphony in particular can only make its effect when played by R.; it is quite deliberately aimed at rousing the audience, there is something oratorical about it, and a person who does not himself command this noble art is certainly incapable of reproducing it. While with the other symphonies I can imagine that a sensitive musician need only get the tempo right to achieve the full effect, this one calls for a person of strength and power.