Friday, December 17:
Föhn weather. R. still not well, does no work on his sketch, and is despondent. Visit from Colonel Am Rhyn; discussion about the investment of savings for the children. Horrible weather, Loldi unwell, R. indisposed. In the evening painted Christmas names.
Saturday, December 18:
To town in the morning to make purchases for Christmas. Both R. and I had a very wretched night, R. ill, I immersed in gloomy thoughts.
In the morning a letter from Prince Hohenlohe; arrival of the Order of Iftekhar from the Bey of Tunis, a large silver brooch, which R. immediately puts to use on the roof of the puppet theater. He does not intend to acknowledge its receipt, since it is too ridiculous to be refused. R. still unwell.
In the evening, when I intervene in a conversation with the children, he thinks I am worried that a quarrel might ensue, and in his misunderstanding he becomes heated about this supposed worry. A despondent evening in consequence.
Reading newspapers, I told R. today, was for me the same as meddling in things with which one has nothing to do, relying on the reports of people who do not know.