Sunday, August 7:
Breakfast in bed, thought about August 25, in connection with which R. says, “He was a great benefit to me; as far as we are concerned, it was not necessary, but it was a good thing.” He works on his score; he is now doing two pages every day.
The newspaper contains an article, “Kant and Darwin,” and R. points out how much superior Schopenhauer’s interpretation of instinct is to Darwin’s. The day brings us Herr Francke with requests for London; R. is little pleased by it, the participation of Herr Pollini is particularly distasteful to him, and he says humorously how right Gobineau is to talk about “Semitized” art.
In the evening the gathering of our acquaintances is a downright torture to him, and a piece of tactlessness on the part of the prize-winner puts him into a real rage. Concertmaster Francke offers to play Beeth.’s Sonata Op. 96, and does so; R. comically finds fault with the squeaking of the violin, which cannot play a melody and sounds like a Nürnberg toy. However, he asks to have the trio of the Scherzo repeated. Of the final movement he says, “Curious! One can hardly call that civilized music.”
When our friends have all departed, R. complains most bitterly about all this company, and since speaking about it does not calm him down, I leave the room. A few moments later I hear him singing “O Mathilde” beneath my window, along with Jouk. He had fetched him and Stein, and he invites me to go for a walk. The four of us stroll through the deserted palace gardens by moonlight, and a lovely mood of gaiety takes hold of us.