Monday, June 13:
R. had a good night and works diligently. A ridiculous story read aloud by R. over coffee, in which Jews make a frequent appearance, brings from R. the remark, “Certainly much has been won in the last six months, since one mentions the Jews by name.”
In the afternoon R. and I visit the mayor and are overtaken by a storm; we seek refuge under the portals of the church, and R. complains about the wind, which reminds him of an officious policeman setting upon and grabbing him, a fear which used to haunt him during the revolutionary years.
After the visit to the mayor the wind has died down, and R. suggests going with me to Angermann’s. We carry out his suggestion and then stroll home, where we walk a little while longer in the garden. The wind has died down, but R.’s thoughts are full of the bad climate, and he speaks definitely of spending next winter away from here.
In the evening memories of Switzerland, the lovely days, but also the floods. R. compares me with Sieglinde: “Further, further!” When we are alone, we talk about our relationship. “Tristan and Isolde,” says R.
I ask him whether I should not destroy our correspondence, since we may perhaps die before Siegfried is sufficiently mature. R. says, “Not yet, but later perhaps; there is no trace of the Goethe-Stein relationship in it - there was blood everywhere.”
Previously, when we were speaking about our journey, he said he was glad it had been so agonizing for us, since things must have been agonizing for others, too.
Hans’s letter to Daniela also provides us with a melancholy topic; he is bitter about his stay in London, and this renewed relationship, though desired, also produces quivers and qualms.