Tuesday, May 18:
Not a good night, skies still white, he still retrospectively vexing himself over the obligations of partisanship, having to concern himself with people who can do nothing whatever for him.
Telegram from friend Feustel, he has lost his son; R. tells me about it and asks me to write something; all I can think of is, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." R. incorporates it in the telegram he has already begun. Melancholy atmosphere.
In the afternoon a walk with R. and Malwida as far as the belvedere. Since R. is still complaining of his sufferings, I send for Dr. Schron, who comes late in the evening.