Monday, March 22:
There are days devoted to misfortune, and it has happened often in my life that such a day is the first of the week. Today, for instance, R. wanted to rise very early in order to finish his letter and also get down to his work. But the chimneysweep upsets it all.
Then he reads me his letter, and I am overcome by deep melancholy. I wish he could find another form for his intercourse; it could be just as warm in tone and might look more genuine. He notices my reservations, though I do not voice them.
Hans has also written, and sends an article from a Catholic paper, in favor of the Jewish pamphlet.
I divide the gloomy day between the children, embroidery, and inking in the score.
During the night I found myself thinking melancholy thoughts about love: when the sexual emotions play no part, it is surely of a higher nature. Yet I cannot think that a love can be deeper, truer, purer than mine for Richard.