Tuesday, November 11:
Winter is here. R. works; I am more or less submerged in domesticity. Walk with the children; Fidi remains at home; R. suspects molars. When, at coffee during the afternoon, he is sitting beside us, happily playing on his own, R. says, “I myself was something like that, I think, playing at puppet theaters; in later years I was a complete romantic. I ran around the countryside and had a mania from the earliest times for imitating musical instruments, the fiddles as they appeared to me, whispering, whistling, and so on.”
Fidi sang a few notes of his own. “That’s how composition begins,” says R.
In the evening Luther at Worms; his prayer moves us to tears. During the night I am seized by feelings of bitterness that I did not go to Pest for my father’s jubilee. I have to shed tears over this separation between us.