Monday, July 22:
Great but welcome heat, R. busy, as he says, with theology. At lunch a dismal occurrence: Fidi behaves badly toward his father; the dreadful thought that he might prove unworthy of him takes possession of me, and this thought, instead of being turned against myself in resigned acknowledgment of original sin, turns inside me against my child, and I hit him, so violently that it causes bruises.
No words, not even my sobs, can express the horror I feel about myself, oh, fortunate people who lived in times when one could atone! In this instance, as always, R. heavenly toward me. But, alas, no kindness could help me here, and with dread I ask myself what demon constantly lurks in one to cause a normally calm person thus to lose all sense of proportion. It was the first time, will it be the last? I am afraid, and in my desperation I struggle to regain the self-control which is habitual to me. It is not life I now fear, I think, and it is also not death or other people, but myself!
We drive out to the Waldhutte, returning via the Fantaisie, all the children well and very good. Oh, God, R. said to me that I am noble in all things, yet I must hate myself so!