Saturday, June 19:
I had to stay in bed today, the doctor told me. R. is with me most of the time and reads to me from Eckermann. When he is there I always feel good, but once he is gone I am overcome by despondency and weakness; all my acts seem questionable, I ask myself whether I have not been striving for the impossible and through that, because of that, have done the wrong thing. Tears are my only solace, since I cannot be active.
The mail brings a nice letter from Champfleury with a book, Les Chats. I am very happy with the Goethe Conversations; in the weakest and most dismal hours communion with a great and wise man is an infinite solace.