Friday, March 4:
First thing in the morning R. is somewhat irritable; his fingers are tormenting him, and the plumbing, again out of order, deprives him of his bath. But he soon recovers, tells me how disturbing these little things are, for his head is still full of his score, and he also wants to start on his new work. Our after-lunch conversation brings us back to Brahmanism, to the religion of intelligent people: 'We belong among these,' R. says. 'We perform hocus-pocus with our art.'
Though the weather is not good, we go for a walk in the palace gardens; among other things R. says, 'Every state is in fact a collection of denunciators; fear of being denounced governs all communications.' As we are happily watching Fidi, alone on the ice, and the dogs chase after him, he is suddenly shouted at by the keeper to take the dogs off the ice; R. is very angry - he cannot bear such admonishments - and his anger at once gives him chest spasms. He writes to the palace gardener, and by supper has overcome his vexation. When, arising from my reading with the children, I talk about Cardinal Richelieu, he says he cannot bear these fellows in their red robes, lace collars, and four-cornered hats!
In the evening we read with unalloyed pleasure the last two acts of La dama duende.
[Added in margin: 'Yesterday, when a pamphlet by a Prof. Ihering about the law arrived, with a very courteous letter, R. said, "It must be pleasant for you to have such a renowned husband."']