Friday, October 10:
R. got up once but on the whole had a good night. I arrange some little things to celebrate the 10th. R. comes in, and all is spoiled. However, the cup with the facade of the old Dresden theater makes up for everything, and when R. laments my little misfortune, I really feel what a triumph it is that the delights of love have managed to overcome the vexations of chance! R. praises me for still taking such great care to preserve the joys of life - ah, it is my soul's gratitude which finds expression thus. Many memories of that time 26 years ago - also of Weber and L. Geyer on account of the cup.
After lunch I return to bed, where these last pages are written. In the evening R. reads Twelfth Night to us, to the delight of us all. I always live again through these hours as they will appear in the future memories of our children, seen now so blissful before me. All kinds of droll incidents: the palm continues to be uncooperative, I could not set it up in the afternoon, and now, when I move it to protect it from the night frosts (the window had to be opened to create cross ventilation!), it pricks me, and I fall over with it in the dark. My celebration was spoiled, but that does not stop us from celebrating.
(R. wrote to Herr Angelo recommending Herr Mottl, and to the conductor Herr Jahn about Die Meistersinger in Wiesbaden.) When I spoke to R. today about Dannreuther's description of musical life in England, he said, "Yes, one ought to start again every 30 years, that is to say, put the successes one has had in the past 30 years to some use."