Tuesday, March 7:
Early in the morning R. comes to me, hugs and kisses me, and says I can never know how much he loves me; if he gets angry, it is only out of concern for me. I laugh, for I had really forgotten what happened yesterday, so he felt everything was all right again.
"The ending of Tristan und Isolde, that tells you everything, that explains us to you!" We vow never to part for a single day.
Children's ailments: Loldi has caught a cold; Lulu is unwell. She cried because her father had not written to her, which pained me extremely.
Rumors that Bismarck has been shot; ridiculous as this is, I am dismayed, thinking of Lincoln's end. We go to town; it all turns out to be nothing.
Letter from the publisher Peters; the military musician Prof. Wieprecht wants to orchestrate the march, but R. cannot bring himself to consent, and in the evening I find him ruling his orchestral score. This wretched money; I fear R. will never free himself of his embarrassments. In God's name!
Wrote all kinds of letters. In the evening R. reads me the beginning of his lecture on The Destiny of Opera. Then he goes back to work, and I look at Durer's Greater Passion with renewed amazement and admiration.