Monday, January 22:
He talks and is restless almost throughout the night, and is also unable to work. Yesterday was too much for him. We ride to the Square; he sits down under the portal but spends only a little time there. I receive a letter from Herr v. Bürkel, but I refrain from telling him about it; he says that the King is holding to his order for a performance of Parsifal in May (in Munich). He feels the outing yesterday was a success, and he says we should always just let him grouse properly — in him imprecations are the heralds of a good mood. Two telegrams from Rubinstein's father greatly touch us and make us deplore his son's harshness.
No massage in the evening, since the doctor has a serious operation to perform. A letter from Dr. Landgraf to Dr. Kurz (!) pleases R. greatly; he says we can consider Landgraf one of our best friends. In the evening there are just the three of us, R., Jouk., and I, and R. enjoys this; he feels a need for quiet, with nothing to provoke him into lively speech. He complains about his memory — today he thought he had had a letter from Jos. Rubinstein. I believe the reason for this is what he is now preparing for Stein's book. We come to the curious situation in France, and R. says, "They no longer have a flag." Then to Russia — he says they ought to take heed there of Gob.'s ideas.
(Recently, in connection with the question whether Jouk. should attend his father's jubilee, R. remarked how painful he would find it, were he obliged to tell himself that his fame put obstacles in Fidi's way. One's main concern is that one's children should be entirely individual and free.) Since the weather is again glorious today, we have to laugh over yesterday's fog, which looks like a spiteful parenthesis designed to spoil R.'s pleasure.
In the evening R. played the trio from the minuet of [Mozart's] G Minor Symphony, delighting in its gracefulness, but he observes that he does not believe such things make their effect in public performances. I observe that I have the feeling that both Mozart's symphonies and Schiller's dramas will vanish from the public repertoire, but that their content will come to be increasingly esteemed by all the people who matter. Agreeing with me, R. ponders on what in art might be regarded as perfect; he says, "An ancient Greek statue."