Tuesday, March 23:
Dismal indeed these first two days of spring have been, and I myself in despondent mood.
At daybreak I wake and tell myself that suffering is good and salutary and that we must suffer with cheerful courage, still and silent, and only then will we feel strengthened, as if the whole world were waving palm fronds at our patience.
Then, too, and only then, the choirs of angels descend, bringing us comfort and singing their “Hail to the Weepers,” that fair cradle song of pain. The mortal being, however, takes up the cup reluctantly and prefers to lament, however much punishment he earns by it.
R. told me he had encountered the convicts who are working in the fields and they had exchanged friendly greetings, one of them even with the words “Bonsoir, monsieur!” In spite of their chains, R. says, they are still members of society; whoever makes public redress for his crime is in a state of legality.
In the evening, dictation. In the afternoon, inked in.