R. very umwell, he seems to have caught cold yesterday, and singing is always a great strain on him. I alone accompany our friends to the railroad station; I am glad of Standhartner’s love for Richard and his delight in what he calls R.’s good
fortune. Comfortingly he finds him more cheerful than previously. But in what state do we leave our friends? In these last two years he has lost one son and is returning to the other, who is wasting away. . . . Oh, life! We drape our wounds with rags. —
Last night I heard Fidi sobbing, I went to him, he complained that his throat was sore, in alarm I sent for Standhartner, it turned out to be nothing—but the shock, the alarm!. . . R. spends the day in bed. I visit Frau Materna, who is herself hoarse. Visit from Feustel’s son-in-law, it is to be hoped that the publisher Fritzsch can be helped.