Monday, December 15:
R. is not well; he goes for a walk in the morning to chase away a headache, but he does not succeed. I receive a letter from E. OlHvier, who intended bringing up his son as a soldier, in order one day, etc. His own happiness was twice destroyed, he says, through not being a soldier! And so my sister’s only son will be estranged from me and brought up as a Prussian-hater!
The house is making good progress, thanks to the Nürnberg painter. Very icy roads today, bad Christmas weather.
In the evening, having used the quotation, “He jests at scars, that never felt a wound,” R. reads the first act of Romeo, as always indescribably moving. R. says that, to one’s complete discomfiture, one finds everything here, everything already done. I ask R. whether he believes that people who have never loved, that is to say, felt love’s compulsion, could understand this play; he says no, to appreciate it inwardly one must have felt oneself that separation would mean death.
The curious conversation with the apothecary somewhat surprises R.; he says it offends one, coming after the news of Juliet’s death. I observe that it contains a sort of ecstasy of suicide, for the despairing youth all emotion is at an end.
Today I myself am indisposed, and the thought of my own death draws nigh. How should I wish to die? Begging with all my heart the pardon of those I have offended; uttering the sublimest words of love to him whom I love; with all my strength forgiving those who have done or wished me evil; imparting to my children, with my blessing, a lesson which in this moment would surely take root in their hearts! But now my prime duty is to hold sacred the life which has brought me so much, such infinite, indescribable happiness. I feel as if R.’s love for me and mine for him are always growing; from this comes the cheerfulness, indeed the gay, happy mood which enables him to bear all his adversities.