Thursday, November 11:
Complete hoarseness keeps me at home, part of the time in bed. R. has two rehearsals of Tannhäuser during the day, the scenery for Tannhäuser in the evening; he tells me curious things about the helplessness in all matters of scenery, for the church bells in the first act of Tannhäuser a peal of alarm bells, the flock of sheep represented by two hand bells, etc.
The greatest pleasure is when we can forget all this nonsense and occupy ourselves with the children, “the finest gift you could ever have given me, the only means of restoring my links with life!” or talk about our reading.
R. has abandoned the Breton sagas, is reading with interest Dozy’s The Moors in Spain. I read the letters and diary of Dürer, recognizing with dismay how wickedly and wretchedly the world has always behaved toward men of genius; again and again it is just a matter of a few hundred florins.
I hear curious things about Marie Donhoff. Stayed up late with R., talking about Blandine.