Saturday, December 29:
R. works. I clean up, write letters, and look back in emotion on the most recent as well as the most distant past! R. works on his “Spa March” and comes to me at midday very pleased with a piece of counterpoint.
We eat alone together upstairs, since I am not very well. We drink to the counterpoint, in splendid spirits. In the evening R. writes to the King and lets me read his fine letter.
When I asked him whether he had not discovered a means of performing magic, of making me cease to be, absorbing me into himself, he pointed a finger toward our tomb.