Tuesday, March 18:
Again not a good night; R. wandered about and took out Goethe’s poems to look up a phrase in “Stirbt der Fuchs, so gilt der Balg.” “With us sought to play” delights him, and in the morning he reads the charming poem to me.
In spite of his restless night, however, R. does some work. He goes for a walk in the afternoon, and in the evening we play whist—he, Lusch, Bonus, and I. And when the day is done, there flows between us the stream of love that never dries up.