Saturday, April 5:
After a night plagued by coughing fits I feel so weak that I spend the whole morning in a state of lethargy. At lunch R. complains of feeling very torpid, says he is utterly dissatisfied with his work - what he did yesterday, which pleased him so much. “If we don’t part in a mood of rejoicing,” he says, “nothing is any good.” He takes a long walk at a swift pace, “to shake off my torpor,” and returns home contented.
When I come downstairs in the evening, he says, “What is this - a portrait of my wife in a printed book?” He holds up the memoirs of Charlotte von Kalb and shows me the picture, and I feel such deep and heartfelt joy that he should see a resemblance between me and this rare being! Ye heavens, make me worthy of his love, take from me the last remnants of self-will, cleanse me, grant me humility, through which courage is regained, as this noble-hearted lady so beautifully says! R. gives me the memoirs as a present, and I read them while R. glances through the Aeneid and says, “It is typical of the whole Renaissance and all the Latin races, the way they clung to Vergil.”
Yesterday he quoted to me an amusing example of declamation in Her Vampyr. The words read “with soul/err gaze,” but the melody unmistakably points to “soul/...”.