Saturday, June 11:
R. had a chest spasm in the morning, and the cold, raw weather puts him in utter despair. An article in the newspaper about the dire state of the farmers in Bavaria (most of the farms are said to be mortgaged) forms the dismal theme of our lunchtime conversation. In Russia a conspiracy against the Tsar has been discovered, and in Paris believers and atheists are quarreling over Littré’s body. One stays indoors and thinks of heating.
In the evening Don Quixote (the episode with the lion and the puppet show) produces a friendlier and more cheerful mood, and R. and I cannot tell each other often enough how singular this work is.