Wednesday, January 27:
R. is better, his night was good, it seems. Mine, too. Glorious weather. More news from Dresden. Die Meistersinger is being performed there four or five times in a row. The children are able to spend nearly the whole day in the garden.
R. is unsettled in his work and even at lunch, because he thinks he tormented me yesterday evening. There is not much I can reply to him, for how could I tell him that his despondent mood had not upset me? And if I reassure him that I bear the distress willingly, I do not thus help him over his concern. All that remains for me is to be cheerful and unaffected.
He does not look well, the letter from Hans yesterday has really shattered him. He says he feels as if he were living only by magic, and he can hardly bear anything more.
A two-hour walk, sun setting, moon rising. Sudden fright in the “Robbers’ Park,” first a raven croaking near me, then a number of crows—their flight, together with their hoarse cries, filled me with alarm—were they prophesying some approaching evil? The golden brightness of the moon and its reflection on the water gradually calmed me.
R. has ordered Devrient’s book about Mendelssohn—it looks somewhat comical, and the fact that Devrient is an uneducated play-actor and Mendelssohn a Jew emerges clearly. I read some of it to R. After that, dictation.