Sunday, January 29:
No sleep, in a deeply religious mood thinking of the dead, of the living, of myself, my unworthiness, the inexpressible happiness of living for R. in this time of hope.
Sent Minna five thalers, wrote to my mother and to Hedwig. Gazing at me, R. tells me how touched he was in Starnberg to see all of my family reflected in my face, my father, Blandine, and Daniel; all the friendliness he had encountered from this direction was concentrated in me.
The five children at my bedside in their Sunday clothes. "Such dignity surrounding you," R. says, laughing, "and you are only a child yourself. All these beings depend on you; you are the axle on which it all turns."
He says that yesterday he sent Frau Wille a telegram inviting her to lunch. Though I am pleased, I tell him how shy I am of the world, how nervous, and how I can only cling tight to him. "Well, what about me?" he asks. "Oh, the world is yours, you work for it and it loves you." "That is all silly rubbish, as you very well know."
Yesterday came news of Porges's failure as theater director. "It is a fine thing," says R., "the way all these sinister misunderstandings in Munich never cease. If only I could assure these people that I shall never again set foot in the dreary place!"
At midday the musicians, and a bowl of salad over my favorite dress! Studied the C-sharp minor quartet and "Es muss sein"; great joy in Tribschen again. No further news of the capitulation.