Thursday, May 22:
At 5 in the morning the Dammallee is already besieged, but it is 7:45 a.m. before the music begins, coming from the Hofmanns’ garden opposite, so that R. shall not see the people. It is mixed with the ringing of church bells. R. has a headache from the previous evening, so my noble good intentions are a little spoiled.
At 12 o’clock, rehearsal. I took the children with me, including Fidi; it goes quite well. R. receives visitors, is still unsuspecting. At lunch, the toasts. I ask, “Long live who, Daniella?” “Our most loyal guardian,” rising to her feet with glass in hand. “Long live who, Blandine?” “Our dearest friend.” “Long live who, Isolde?” “Our kindest father.” “Long live who, Fidi?” “My papa” whereupon the military band plays the introduction to the third act of Lohengrin. We are all in copious tears.
In the morning the children recited a 16th-century poem, then Daniella carried in the Laurana Gallery etchings of Raphael, drawings, which R. had once seen and admired at the home of the painter Hübner; Blandine, Introduction à l'histoire du Buddhisme by Burnouf; and the two little girls Le Roman des douze pairs from R.’s former library. Fidi brings in a poodle, chosen for me by the Krockows, almost too fragile, for we had wanted a strong and solid poodle, but a nice and affectionate little creature, whom we christen Put^.
Toward evening I tell R., who still thinks the Thursday gathering is to be held in our house, that the amateur society wants to put on a little celebration of half an hour at the most, and we cannot spoil it for them. We walk to the opera house, which is full to bursting and looks very elegant. R. thinks at first that Zumpe has composed a festival overture for his birthday, but the program sets him straight. And now one surprise follows another, until finally he sees Franziska on the stage. He says he feels stunned; he had had no inkling of any of it. Our surprise succeeded completely.
After the performance, a party in the Anker. R. expresses his thanks; as “a musician in need of help,” he needs love! Home quite late. Something curious occurred early in the day: R. dreamed about bookbindings and that he had told the bookbinder that it would look well if the titles were printed in black on a light background, instead of gold. Now it so happened that, when I sent Burnouf’s book to be bound, I had the idea of getting the author’s name and the date of the work done in black! This little coincidence gives us much delight. A nice telegram from the King. M. Schl. sends Jama.