Sunday, May 21:
At lunch R. declares that he will now read only Gobineau, Schopenhauer, and himself. The first of these, he tells me, possesses much acuteness, but no real profundity. R. and I drive up to the theater. The sun is shining. The new façade of the royal box pleases us quite a lot. On the homeward journey I show R. the butterflies which I planned to release on the 22nd; he sees one of them, the first, lying dead on the steps, since the cold has been so intense the past few days, but he takes two of them from the boxes, and a swallowtail flies sturdily away.
In the evening R. says with such amiable kindness that he is looking forward to what tomorrow will bring. He plays the march from the Eroica, describing it as truly heroic, since in its mourning it never abandons its solemn dignity.
I remember now what the “similar thoughts” were: I decide to make use of R.’s symphony in the birthday congratulations, and I give it to Humperdinck; R., who has not mentioned it for a very long time, now asks me for it!