Dull gray weather, I spend morning and afternoon with the children, writing letters. R. works, goes to the house twice during the day, has a bath, and also keeps an eye on everything.
In the evening some more fine scores arrive from Paris, and R. plays me parts of Fa Vestale—Julien’s plea to the High Priestess, the crowning of Lycinus, and above all her monologue enchant us, and R. says,
“A person who has written things like that is sacred to one.”