Tuesday, November 22:
Nothing except a glorious morning, which I spend with the children in the garden. R. orchestrates. I amuse the children greatly by telling them that a merchant ship called Hans Bülow has been captured by the French.
R. was despondent yesterday evening, he maintained that I was “not the same as before,” but today he is cheerful again and tells me I should not be upset by the fact that he is so utterly dependent on me. In all my sad thoughts about life I am always uplifted by the knowledge that it was permitted to me to become necessary to him, that he really needs me in order that he may carry on effectively.
In the afternoon piano practice, in the evening R. reads Hoffmann’s story “Die Brautschau.”