Saturday, July 8:
R. had a restless night; in the morning he writes to the King about his decision not to attend the performances, and he tells me he has done what Luther did to the Lord in connection with Melanchthon's illness - thrown his club at his feet! I paid some calls. At lunch R. answers a warning not to eat cucumber salad by saying to me humorously, "Shut your trap!" and he then recalls his mother, who used to put a swift end to every discussion by saying this very loudly and emphatically. Costume fittings. The swords are missing and various things have to be modified, but the overall impression is lovely, and the effect as powerful as any theater can produce. R. is disappointed that the Knights' accolade does not fill the time required by the music written for it; this music is still being played as they start marching, but there is nothing that can be done about it, and for me this moment of brotherly love is one of the most moving of all. In the evening R. is tired, but on the whole pleased.
(Yesterday he was upset by a member of the chorus who was making jokes about the bread, and he rebuked him severely.)