Thursday, January 4:
My mainstay lies in carrying out every duty, however trivial, to the last detail, for my melancholy is profound and it would envelop everything but for this strange power standing upright like a column amid ruins.
The children are flourishing, the four of them, and I also have good hopes for Daniella. R. continues with his historical work, I pay some calls with Lusch, and in the evening read Childe Harold. Since the print is too small for my eyes, R. takes over the reading in German, and we greatly enjoy this final canto; I remark that Byron had the same sort of impressions as R.