Sunday, February 12:
Fidi had a good night, and the doctor is very satisfied with his condition! R. has a cough, against which he is advised to take opium drops; however great his disgruntlement, his native humor keeps returning, and today, when the doctor was tapping Fidi to sound his swollen spleen, R. asks, “Fidi, do you think the Archbishop would put up with that?” — Yesterday he told the doctor, “Physicians live on our foolish acts.” — Around 12 o’clock I go for a walk with him; the lovely air once again revives his desire to make a second home in Sicily.
At lunch we are struck by coincidence; D[aniela] says Rub. was asking whether R. had received a letter from his father; she says he is disturbed at hearing no news. At this very moment Giovanni comes in with the book containing registered letters, gives it—curiously enough—to Daniela, who signs it for her father and then hands him the letter from Kharkov. — Rub.’s father writes in a very decent manner, and R., sending the letter on to Rub., advises him to do as his father wishes.
He comes to Fidi’s bedside with all kinds of news about the imminent flight of the Pope, the losses in the recent crisis on the stock exchange, which have hit the Jesuits hardest of all; he suddenly finds it cold in the sickroom and says jokingly to S.: “It’s all right for you, you have a temperature, but the rest of us are cold!” — In the evening our excellent friends Gangi and Tasca visit us; unfortunately R. is increasingly annoyed by the necessity of talking French, and by the end of the evening he is feeling very run down.
Monday, February 13:
Fidi was quiet during the night, but very listless during the day. R. had a tolerable night, but he does not feel well; our conversation takes us in many different directions, including Tunis. A (for him) very unwelcome interlude is the visit of our friend Rub., who is quite unwilling to obey his father and yet wants him to go on supporting him financially. At 12 o’clock a drive with R. through the glorious countryside; but R. is displeased by the bareness of the mountains.
Lunch is spent discussing Rub.’s fate. R. is very depressed and out of humor in the afternoon, his revision of the 3rd act gives him no pleasure, and the material difficulties of our life, such as the unsatisfactory furniture, arouse his anger. But in between much laughter (before lunch). I had made inquiries about the owl, in order to have it stuffed as a memento for R. if possible. Then I receive the news that it was not the owl, but Herr Florio’s mother-in-law who had died! Mi dispiace molto, the servant said in conveying this correction! — But the merriment does not last long. Since R. did not feel the worry about Fidi to the same extent, his joy over his improving condition is not sufficiently intense to prevent his disregarding the natural weakness of our child and loudly complaining that the conclusion of our stay here has been spoiled, since we shall be unable to make any excursions.
In the evening, as we are going to bed, he breaks out into complaints about life, the world, and above all the state of his health. But he soon goes to sleep, while I lie awake enduring an inner raging of the most bitter melancholy! But the storm abates, and with the cry “My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” I once again discover the paths my weakness had barred to me, and, sadly still, yet peacefully, I embark on