Sunday, July 18:
A very, very bad night for R., indigestion and feeling hot; we stroll around, and he reads. In the morning he talks of dispiritedness, which Schiller mentions in his last letter.
But he becomes more cheerful at breakfast, tells me how much he envies the children, whom he has just heard laughing. His envy is pleasurable, however. He works, and the day passes quite bearably, and we even go to bed amid great laughter, for R. declares that he cannot tell whether our servant Georg is “hurling” furniture around as he tidies up or whether fireworks are being set off: “I thought just now it was a chair, but it was probably a rocket.”
And yet—