Sunday, November 19:
R. got up once during the night, but he did not have a bad night. In the morning, while still in bed, he talks about the “covetous nothing,” the will which is nothing when it does not covet, and about the theory of property, the most untenable of all, since people can hardly call even their thoughts their own, so afflicted are they by the outside world. Then he turns to the article on Gob. and says it could only have been written by a woman - if a man wrote like that, it would be the feminine side of him speaking. Then he tells me some things from Gob.’s chapter on historians, which he finds most ingenious. At breakfast he recalls the Jewish problem, explaining it to himself roughly along the lines that the threat of socialism (Stoecker in alliance with Bismarck) is being turned against the Jews.
At 10 o’clock we receive news from my father that he is arriving this evening. Sincere delight on R.’s part. Around one o’clock - after he has written to Feustel about Voltz and Batz matters - we go out; he somewhat circumspectly, fearing a spasm. We stop at Giovanelli, and inspecting the palazzo gives him pleasure; he comes to a halt in front of the sketch for The Tribute Money in particular: “Then his gaze fell upon me,” he says, and recalls the other picture; would like to possess such things - unusual with him. Then he is attracted by the ballroom, says he would like to build something in this style. From there we go to S. Apostoli, where religious instruction presents a cheerful sight. We return home; R. has a chest attack, but slight, thank God. In the afternoon we meet in Saint Mark’s Square (at Lavena’s, where he makes arrangements about quartets with a violinist; the latter asks him about Brahms and Dvořák! ...) We ride home, R. stays in the palazzo while we go to meet my father, whom he welcomes on the steps of Vendramin. He would dearly have liked to have lighted torches, but in the absence of these, many gas lamps are burning. My father is somewhat tired but better in health than we feared. Yet, for all the cordiality on both sides, it is hard to get a conversation going.