Good Friday. To church with the children; returning home, I suggest to R. that he walk to the theater with us. Since he feels too unwell to work, we ascend the hill which is also a Mount Calvary for us. In the afternoon drove to the Fantaisie to see the hens, the Duke having promised to give us some.
A fine day, happy mood (on the theater hill we saw the little Parzival flowers from the Grütli, memories of those solemn and momentous days).
In the morning, as I set out for church, R. saw me off with the words “Give your Saviour my greetings, even if from the very beginning up to the dean he has caused a lot of confusion.” —
In the evening we finish Euripides’s “Iphigenia” even its moment of beauty, the raising of Iphigenia, does not touch us —all feeling in it is killed by speech and explanations. Oh, Shakespeare! . . .