Wednesday, June 28:
Letter from Marie Schleinitz; she understands my conduct, but sees it all very shallowly, like a true woman of the world. We are having to consult a lawyer in the matter of the carriage. The poet Hartmann rather gauchely sends us his revised Propheten again.
R. had a bad night; the weather is too oppressive. I was assailed by melancholy dreams, that Hans was in a bad way and complaining. But R. works; at lunch he talks of the curious process of collecting one’s thoughts, which looks like absent-mindedness. Now he adjusts a cushion, now thinks of politics, but all the time he is collecting his thoughts, and suddenly it comes. But nothing from outside must intrude. “The difficulties I had in getting down the finals to the second act of Die Meistersinger were due to the fact that you had gone away. You will not believe me, will tell me I managed to work in my earlier days, but then I was drawing on my capital; now I am dependent.”
In the afternoon, a letter from Marie Muchanoff; she returns my letter, did not give it to my father, since he has changed his mind, thinks it is still too early. We smile. R. digs out Holtei’s Lenore for its songs from the Seven Years’ War and sings them to the children. In the evening, Carlyle.