Friday, December 22:
I dreamed about Boni, that the dress I sent her for Christmas was too tight for her. At breakfast R. and I talk about being in the grip of a passion, no longer oneself, as in Tristan, in Macbeth. This is what makes a hero, a tragedy. Today Eva gets up. R. brings her to the lunch table, where she is greeted! In the afternoon she returns to bed, and around 4 o’clock we go to the rehearsal, which I am allowed to attend, hidden from sight! First we stroll in Saint Mark’s Square, then enter the Teatro La Fenice. It is very cold! R. has a spasm, but he conducts the first movement, then, after quite a long pause, the others. I sit in concealment far away from him and am touched to think that 50 years ago he performed this work for his mother, now for me. Then I take delight in the straightforward, courageous work, and I tell R., “That was written by someone who knew no fear.” We ride home, R. and I, in the moonlight with Loldi, forbearing to speak. He spends the evening by himself, and unfortunately has a very restless night.