Saturday, July 4:
R. still occupied with his library, I have all sorts of things to do in the house and with Lusch. In the afternoon looking over the accounts, always a worry to me.
In the evening the musicians, we settle ourselves on the stairs. 'The Decameron,' R. says to me, and adds, 'I am sorry I cannot provide you with a better Decameron.'
Tropical heat. R. plays us the romance from Isouard's Joconde: 'But always one returns to one's first loves.' 'Yes,' he says, 'many tender things have been said on this earth and forgotten.'