Friday, February 28:
Once again, cook trouble. I walk as far as our godchild’s home, to the work people, to find out whether they can help me. This domesticity causes great concern. What use are the wives of factory managers, what use physicians, clergymen, municipal authorities? Nobody cares about anything; there is no reliable servant to be found anywhere here, and the homes of the work people are stuffy and dark.
When I return home, I find R. at the piano, working out a passage in the Ninth Symphony to make it sound good. He embraces me warmly, pitying me for my worries, of which I make light, since they do not really affect me; the worries that oppress my heart are of another kind. I write on R.’s behalf to London, making our appearance dependent on guaranteed earnings of £1,000; finally I have to send it by cable, since Herr Dannreuther wants an urgent reply, on account of the hiring of the hall.
In the evening R. returns home late; he was with Feustel, with whom he viewed the house. He is always glad to be with this excellent man, who is truly the pillar of our undertaking. Very nice letter from our physician, Dr. Landgraf, who sends us a ridiculously small bill.