Thursday, May 27:
Corpus Christi day, proclaimed by cannon shots. The children merry and lively, eager to watch the procession; I pack them off, but spare myself the sight.
R. comes to me, looking unwell, and harshly voices his objection to the children's outing. I say nothing and remind him only later that I had sought his opinion the day before, when I told him the little ones wanted to see the procession. R. now goes further and makes the reproach that I am literally killing myself with looking after the children; I am now all mother, and he is losing me entirely. He had been so pleased that I was to occupy the room next to his, but now I have gone to sleep with the children. He cannot reproach me for this, he says, but he feels it painfully.
Deeply shattered by his words, I do not know what to say; if he does not feel happy with me, then I deserve his reproaches, and yet I feel I cannot do otherwise; but I shall have to try to arrange things so that nobody will fall short. R. does indeed tell me later that he is very unwell and that this had given rise to his mood.
I write to Claire and to Mme Lucca. The children return home very cheerful. R. goes to bed; I read him Uncle Adolph's pamphlet Theater and Public, a very significant little essay. Lunch at 4 o'clock; visit from Count Bassenheim, something of a nuisance. Arrival of flowers sent by the King. In the evening some scenes from The Merchant of Venice. R. also told me in the morning that it looked as if I were expecting to die and had no wish but to sacrifice myself in all directions.