Saturday, January 13:
R.'s night was a good one, and today he is massaged twice. Much else besides. Above all, the arrival of our friend Gross, who did not receive R.'s telegram until Kufstein. A request has come from Munich (on account of the exposition) that we give only ten performances this year, and these in July. R. is at first very annoyed, but then he gives way, though not before saying that the best thing would be to give it up entirely — though he then thinks of the children and feels one ought to set them an example of constancy. At 2 o'clock my father takes his departure; R. claims frequently to have discerned in him a mood of sadness about himself. In connection with my father's life, R. wonders what would have become of him if things had continued as they were in Vienna (1863). Impossible to imagine.
Earlier we celebrated the birthday of our good Paul [Joukowsky]; R. makes a speech, and in the evening he plays a march theme, which he then writes down for him. When we are left alone, he talks of Gobineau's interpretation of Alexander's personality, which exactly matches his own (R.'s).
And then later, when he is in his room, I hear him playing softly on the piano; the hovering forms draw close again. Yesterday he said that his symphonies would be a melody spun out in a single movement, and today he frequently plays a melody of his own which has come into his mind, in the manner of an English folk song.