Tuesday, October 22:
My father’s 61st birthday. He is spending it alone in Regensburg; this is the concession he felt he had to make to his relationship with Princess W., while everybody is sending telegrams here, believing him to be with us. I am sad about it.
R. says, “I am all love to you, but you are something else besides,” which I can only take as a joke.
In the evening we return to our good Gozzi and read his Turandot with great interest. We talk about our travel plans. Mme Lucca writes expressing her delight that we are coming to Milan, so this cup will also have to be drained. To bed in deep and earnest thought.