Wednesday, December 7:
R. again rose early and had breakfast by himself, but he does keep me company for a while. I visit the museum with Loldi in very wet weather, which is also responsible for our going for a drive with R. instead of a walk. At lunch he tells us about his reading (Kant), which he finds absorbing. The great success of Tristan und Isolde in Berlin, of which our friend Mimi has told us, both pleases and surprises him, and he speaks appreciatively of Niemann’s ambition, which keeps him alert. Musical reviews cause him to exclaim, “Nobody takes Tristan as seriously as I do, neither poets nor musicians,” and he feels he is really unclassifiable.
Yesterday, as we were talking about the B. Blätter, he described the kind of criticism it should have published, for example a condemnation of the whole piano mentality, and so on. In the evening Rubinstein brings along the first proofs of his piano arrangement and plays it, to R.’s satisfaction. Today he was annoyed by a letter I read to him from friend Gross, then at lunch said he was ashamed of himself, but two things in life upset him: on the one hand, the sluggishness with which things are done, on the other, the wild rush. Such punctuality when there is something to pay, but when one is expecting something, such procrastination! A letter from Princess Wittg. about the significance of visiting cards amuses us greatly.