Sunday, September 28:
R. had a good night. He works on his letter and tells me at lunch that he never does more than a single page (though a closely written one) each day, because he is taking a lot of trouble with the formulation; he says he is trying to express briefly in a sentence things which, if he were to deal with them one by one in separate paragraphs, would cause him to lose the main thread; but the clarity of the sentence must not be allowed to suffer, and this means hard work.
When I return home in the afternoon, I find R. in the garden, looking unwell and in a rather bad mood. He had been looking forward to hanging up the “Cosmos-Eos,” but the servant had disappeared and been absent a long time. At last he returns, and we start our hanging work, during which R. displays his remarkable dexterity, his liveliness in overcoming all difficulties. Various things have to remain uncompleted.
R., vexed, unwell, the dull weather oppresses him as much as his preoccupation with the subject of vivisection. He spits some blood and says at whist, “I have no wish to die yet.”
Why is it that I write this down, something which grieves me so unutterably, yet a kind of shame prevents my setting down all the signs and sacred words of his love? I have the feeling that worry takes flight in the act of expressing it, I must confide it to this page at least, for the burden is too great for my strength. It is a weakness, an expedient, words lift the oppression; but silence shall shield all that inspires me, and prevent it from melting away!