Monday, January 9:
The night passed fairly well, with a gentle perspiration, but vexation over unavailable precautions is unavoidable. A warmed jacket cannot be procured, but in the midst of his vexation R. asks Schnappauf how he puts jackets on madmen, and when Schnappauf shows him, R. begins to laugh heartily again. The day is spent taking care of a slight sore throat; we eat alone together, and I then go with Count Tasca to look at a villa (Airodi); this, at the same time too grandiose and too dilapidated, makes us think again of Venice, which R. prefers to all other Italian towns. In the evening I read aloud the touching story of Die arme Baronin, which R. had previously read and highly recommended—the metaphor of the little kitten particularly pleases him. After the reading he returns to his idea of the dead world in which we are now living, and puts it into words. He also comes back to animals and their way of devouring one another, and he firmly pushes the thought from his mind. Talking of German fiction in general, he says he can think of nothing arising from our society except criminal cases, for example, situations caused by clashes of character, etc.