Monday, May 26:
R. slept tolerably well. He sets about arranging his things; the clearing away has already been done, and now Webia’s and Michel’s gifts must be assigned their places - a nice final task, for now all the friendly cares are done with, the rehearsals, everything; the children and I are missing them! Yesterday evening Marke began to bark loudly, R. ran to the window and rebuked him severely. Coming back to me, he says, “I remembered how, when I was a child and cried in the evenings, I was not content until my sister scolded me. That calmed me down, and that is what Marke wanted, too.”
R. spends most of the day in the garden; toward evening he goes with the children to the poultry show, and then comes straight up to my room. I notice something in his face, and he admits to me that he has spat some blood - the consequences of straining his throat. Oh, if we could only live for ourselves alone! Everything else, however well intentioned, is a disturbance. In the evening the doctor comes, he advises R. to put off the start of his cure a little while. His pleasure in my picture delights R. Gay and peaceful game of whist with the two girls. The Bayreuther Blätter containing R.’s fine article has arrived, he is a little vexed about the misprints, and he also thinks much more attention should be paid to its appearance. He recently told me that it irks him not to mention me by name - how can I tell him that all my happiness lies in becoming absorbed in his identity?