Sunday, April 4:
Lovely spring weather. R. receives a nice letter from Sascha Ritter, who is prepared to entrust his son to us. A pretty photograph of Fidi. Young children are so dear. R. says that the difference between what one is and what one sees can hardly be balanced: “Children are something in themselves, yet nevertheless not strange.”
Our household expenses are downright alarming. In the evening, a small gathering; Chopin’s “Barcarolle,” which does not please R. He finds it out of keeping with its title and deplores the way in which people nowadays can never have too much foaming and raging.