Tuesday, January 2:
R. had a good night; bright sunshine. I write some letters, but my right eye suddenly develops a black ring, and I have to give up writing and reading. I go out with R.; he tells me a lot about the history of the Persians, with unstinted admiration. I show him the Moretto picture, which he thinks is one of the finest ever painted. We return home in very good spirits.
At lunch, accusing himself of possessing a bad character, he says, "With me one has to show foresight and forbearance." Then he makes a lot of jokes about civil marriages and says to my father, "You mean several marriages." The news that friend Feustel's eldest son has shot himself leads to solemn conversations.
In the evening the two of us are alone with Jouk. R. talks about the Renaissance and reads various things about Venice in Goethe's Italian Journey, for which he does not much care. Before that he read to us from the newspaper a court case involving Jews, expressing astonishment that such language can be spoken in our country.