Friday, December 7:
R. had a very wretched night, and I wonder to myself how I can keep things from him, so that he can live solely for what really matters to him. The mild, dull weather also does not agree with him. Yesterday I felt I had to tell him about my visit to Herr Feustel, but now I think I should have kept silent, let come what may, rather than torment him. But the few people who have enrolled must indeed be told not to come, and friend Feustel did not wish to do this without first consulting R. This pains me unutterably; the only point of my existence is to protect him, to shield and take care of him! He does manage to work a little in the morning.
But in the evening the proofs of Parsifal cause him great annoyance; the print is too large and the appearance of the whole is not pleasing. On top of that, Herr Seidl made such a bad copy that R.'s work has been doubled. To Herr Feustel in the evening to meet the mayor. As we are driving there, R. recalls various times when he went out like this in the evenings, and he says, “There are no forms and faces hovering near me, nothing lives in my memory, I look back into the mists of the past; everything before our time together is dead inside me.” Herr Feustel and the mayor comply with R.'s wishes, though it is decided only that the school will not open for the time being. We return home in cheerful spirits, and R. thanks me! Oh, God! When he said to me today, “I am hard to put up with - one has to unload one's vexation and worry on the person one loves best,” I did not know what to say: the only thing I find hard is to see him suffering!