Sunday, January 8:
Hans's birthday. The children celebrate it in high spirits; at lunch R. proposes his health: "Long live your good father, children, your mama's best and truest friend."
After the departure of the children, when R. wanted to speak about Hans, I asked him to be silent, for my heart was sore; that offended him, and so I had committed a great injustice.
Letter from my mother, who has persuaded herself that the French are worthy of admiration! Showed the children slides on the magic lantern. In the evening we talk of our memories, particularly the unbelievable happenings in Munich. I write a few lines to E. Ollivier.
Monday, January 9:
With the children; R. orchestrates. In the afternoon sleigh ride with the two little ones. Bureau de Musique Peters, thus the signature, writes: "I am still hoping for the composition of the coronation march." The day before yesterday R. said to me, "If worst comes to worst, I shall write the march." The Bureau declares that the King and Queen of Prussia love R.'s music.
At lunch R. said a true demonstration of how utterly Shakespeare's characters are living persons, and just as incomprehensible, is given in Hamlet's monologue. "When one sets out consciously to write a monologue about suicide, something emerges like Cato's monologue in Addison; but Shakespeare's is as incomprehensible as Nature itself."
I teach the continents to my "favorite daughter," as R. calls Loldi. Letter to Loulou from her grandmother, who says that Hans was very touched by the cup. I think of him a lot and hope so dearly that his children may one day give him pleasure, and I shy away from the thought of death. God help all us pitiful people!