Monday, January 31:
Geyer-Wagner cup, which I gave to R., broken this morning by the maid; sorry as I am, I thank God that misfortune strikes in this way, leaving the children unharmed. R. works, I working with the children.
In the afternoon a visit from the old Prince, who tells me he wept with emotion and pleasure when Lusch yesterday recited my poem to him. He speaks of his childhood—he has served under three Bavarian kings—his father a reigning prince, and now he ends up in Lucerne. R. in agitated mood, much in his sketch is not yet as he wants it. “I am no composer,” he says, “I wanted only to learn enough to compose Feubald und Adelaide, and that is how things have remained—it is only the subjects which are different.”