Sunday, July 24:
R. is very dissatisfied with his night’s rest; complains bitterly of a chest spasm; he fears that showers no longer agree with him, is ill-disposed toward the air here, which “huffs and puffs and always makes him feel as if a policeman were grabbing hold of him.” But when he talks of climates elsewhere, I succeed in diverting him to India, and our conversation soon takes a cheerful turn.
He works and reaches the middle of his score, less 3 pages. Jouk.’s new Flower Maiden makes him joke about these bean blossoms being Klinpor’s kitchenmaids. The weather is fine, we go for a walk together in the palace gardens and plan all sorts of outings. In the evening we are visited by friends Forges and Gross.
The group picture phantom-like, and R. says, “This is how the modern world has learned to live with art, as far as the visual arts are concerned, through photography, which is to art what glee clubs are to music.”