Friday, July 1:
Stormy weather; R. works. In the afternoon the lawyer; he thinks that everything can be settled this month. This always gives me a feeling of earnestness, almost even of melancholy, and makes me feel unwell. From his walk R. brings back a telegram from Weimar with 46 signatures, the four performances are over and they are sending R. a silver laurel wreath.
Much joy in Fidi. “One has to have grown old like me to know what happiness this is,” R. says to Richter. And: “If this boy does not turn out better and bigger than I, then physiognomy is a liar.”
In the evening I play passages from Beethoven’s quartets with Richter, then R. reads the first two acts of Macbeth, in which we are struck by the very bad translation (Tieck, not Schlegel).