Tuesday, April 6:
I am still unwell; the children’s arrival is upsetting me. R. writes letters, I embroider and read Lewes’s Goethe, a wretched book, but a noble subject.
In the afternoon a long walk; in the evening R. takes a bath. He is very, very run down. I read to him the conclusion of Charmides. The children will not come tomorrow, but on Thursday.
In the Propyläen I read letters by my grandfather about my father’s first successes, and feel much moved.