Monday, May 8:
Siegfried is ill - muscular rheumatism, it seems. I hold a rehearsal with the girls; R. comes in. “I suppose you are reading a Greek tragedy,” he says jokingly. He writes to the King. (In my little notebook I have written “then sang,” but now, six weeks later, I do not know what this means.) In the afternoon he has a conference with the mayor and friend Gross which turns out very encouragingly for him. In the evening we see Fritz Brandt, the son! ... Herr Merz is also here, there is much talk, also music (the Flower Meadow, as R. says, presented like a horseradish), and Italian melodies. When we are alone we ask ourselves when we shall be alone at last, by ourselves? The thought of our dear sweet children is our whole delight!