Wednesday, March 31:
[In the margin: “‘Goethe, so intent on beauty.’ Richard.”]
A spring day. I can sit in the garden and embroider; the children full of fun, dancing in the living room, outside much jumping about and running.
To me R. talks about the redecoration of the rooms; strangely, it makes me feel sad; also I can think of nothing but the children. R. works and says he is now well into it: his Siegfried is rushing through the flames.
After lunch a letter from Loulou; its overformal French manner displeases R., and he tells me so, which makes me very melancholy. In the evening a letter from Mathilde, somewhat overwise.
After tea read Plato’s Lysis with indescribable delight. Otherwise, worry over a children’s nurse.