Monday, December 5:
The night puts me in a mood for verse! Four or five little poems occur to me, but they are melancholy, like my whole outlook. Uncle Liszt sends me 15,000 francs in my father’s name. At R.’s request I return them with the remark that I had asked for my affairs with Rothschild to be put in order, not for help in a time of embarrassment. The remittance vexes R. extremely. — Letter from our former cook, who is very touched. Christmas purchases. In the evening more Strauss.