Saturday, May 31:
R. had a somewhat better night, but he did have to get out of bed, and I find him looking worn out. Not even his kindness and love can lighten my concern; my limbs feel as heavy as lead, everything seems wrapped in oppressiveness. But in the afternoon R. says a rest in the summerhouse has done him good. We stroll together through our beloved home, he reads to me some passages from The French Revolution, and then we go to see the sculptor Herr Geier, to order an aquarium for Friedel.
Now, as I am writing this, the trees are gleaming gold in the sunshine, the blackbirds singing ceaselessly, and he wandering around below, and everything seems good again, instilling hope in my heart.... In the evening I read aloud to R. and the children one-half of Carlyle’s first lecture, Hero-Worship. Among other things, R. finds what he has to say about allegory really outstanding. Then some research into the seasons, why summer in Brazil begins in December. Many lexicons, we laugh heartily at our ignorance.