Saturday, January 2:
Cheered on opening my eyes by the sight of a rosy sky; the foehn had conjured up its most brilliant colors for the morning display of light. Soon afterward I was told that Evchen was ill; she had had a bad night. Concern, but no anxiety, for she was cheerful. Richard slightly indisposed but in good spirits.
We visit the child; I stay upstairs while he goes to his work, the essay on the Jews. At eleven I go to say goodbye before my walk with Loldi and can report that Evchen is well, if still a bit run down. Before lunch he reads me the continuation. Great delight in its terseness and pithiness. Our conversation at table arises from this.
After the meal a feeling of intense happiness at having found each other. Later, in connection with the biography, I ask him whether I should read Schopenhauer. He advises me against it: a woman should approach philosophy through a man, a poet. I am in complete agreement. He goes for his walk, I to sleep with Musäus in my hand.
In the evening to the children, Eva very lively, a great load off my mind. The children to bed, 7 o’clock, then supper. Richard has no inclination to dictate; we decide to read a book. Plato? Not yet bound. Wallenstein? Read it again only a short time ago. Calderón? Too emotional. So Shakespeare’s histories or the Odyssey. We decide on the last. Most wonderful impression, a sublimely intimate evening, indelible images stamped on my mind. Untroubled sleep.