Wednesday, March 1:
R. had a restless night, and the sirocco, which is blowing strongly today, is a severe strain on him. There are only the three of us for lunch, since the children have gone on a big outing to S. Martino. All sorts of things from the outside world, pictures of the carnival, a speech by friend Feustel (which makes R. remark jokingly, “He knew nothing about me and has been gradually won over; he bases his relationship with me on my relationship with the world”), then news from Paris that nothing but R.’s things is being performed there.
We do not go out, and R. feels increasingly unwell, so that I send for the doctor, who again finds nothing to cause concern. I read to Fidi the first act of Götz von Berlichingen.