Thursday, November 4:
Dreamed of taking leave of Hans; great melancholy. In the morning R. comes up to me; he is concerned about my health. Then he says, “What should we give the first people who congratulate us on our marriage?” I ask who they are. “The Chaillous,” my tailors in Milan! We laugh.
After that a letter from Claire informs me that my mother read the announcement of our marriage in La Liberté. I have to write to her, which I find very uncongenial. “Oh, your parents,” says R. jokingly, “your dear papa; it soon turns out that sitting down to a piano is rather different from sitting down to life.”
After lunch R. says he wants to write me a letter; he is too worried about my life. Then he lights two candles and shows me a colossal shotgun in the corner of his room. He will shoot himself with this, he says, if I do not take care of myself. Much amusement over it, questions as to where the shotgun came from. “Well, that is a secret.”
In the evening D. Quixote, leaving the ducal court: “What a clever person he is!” Richard working.