Thursday, December 16:
R. works on the sketch of the intermezzo; when feeling so blissful about the flourishing state of his mind and heart, I fear always that I might forget Hans's suffering. I then invariably remind myself of it.
With the children at lunch. R. and I start talking about Tristram Shandy. R. remarks on the curiousness of this disquieting book, in which everything is attributed to procreation and birth, and in turn birth becomes the reason why Tristram Shandy cannot express himself except in this confused manner. The fact that Shandy's father refers constantly to mother wit, or the wit one derives from oneself, suggests that by this he means genius.
After lunch R. goes into town. I stay in the downstairs salon and gild nuts. Colorful sunset, the last glimmers of the open fire, the dark gleam on the Goethe frame, the nuts glittering in the dusk; my "better soul" awakens, and in my thoughts I look back on my life. Could I have done otherwise? Am I to reject my love for R.? Never, and since not, that means I had no right to act differently. But since on account of it someone had to suffer, I acknowledge deep inside myself the sinfulness of this obedience, and I shall atone and do penance for it in all the ways I can.