Monday, June 8:
The children play a lot with Richter. We have domestic difficulties and I many worries. Sketches from Hoffmann, who has at last made the alterations! R. works.
The musicians come in the evening, and the third act of Siegfried is gone through; during it I think with unutterable melancholy of my dead friend, how none had ever listened to and breathed in these sounds as she had, and none had loved me as she had. I really would like R. to write about her, but I do not intend to exhort him; if he were to adopt my views on life, how could he ever create?