Saturday, January 25:
R. slept well, but he does no work, and after we have had a light lunch at twelve o’clock, he undergoes the operation proper, which is painful and exhausting; he takes a rest afterward, then goes for a little walk, and we eat at 5 o’clock, when, if not as cheerful as yesterday, he is nevertheless just as hospitable. (Alone with me in the morning, he came back to the King’s letter and remarked what nice things he had said about the “Retrospect”; they reminded him of my father’s comparison with the golden bucket.)
In the evening I have to take Lusch to a ball, but I return home at once, going again to fetch her later. When I come into the salon, R. is playing the American march with Herr Rubinstein; before that they had played something from the second act of Parsifal, and R. had been pleased with it.
Then R. talked about his experiences with the festival, saying, “I was quite right at the time, when I said we had entertained the public and now we should have to pay for it.” To me he says in the evening, “The finest thing I have ever done is what Tristan says—‘Let me die’—with what went on before.” He is sleeping deeply when I return home at 3 o’clock.