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and remind me of the good old times when I
was between thirty and forty and life was
pleasantest.
May 26th.—The family quarrel together and
the children howl. How similar it is, and yet
how pleasant it is for me—now!
May 29th.—A letter from the children of my
first marriage informs that a telegram had come
for them bidding them to be present in Stockholm
at the farewell feast which was to celebrate
my departure for the North Pole. They understand
nothing about it, and I just as little.
What a fatal error!
June 2nd.—In the Avenue de l’Observatoire I
find two pebbles shaped exactly like hearts. In
the evening, in the garden of a Russian painter,
I found a third heart of the same size, exactly
like the two others. The playing of Schumann’s
Aufschwung has ceased, and I am again calm.
June 9th.—I visit the Danish painter in the
Rue de la Santé. The great dog has disappeared;
the entrance is free. We go to dine on
a terrace in the Boulevard Port-Royal. My
friend is cold and uncomfortable, and as he
has forgotten his overcoat I lay mine over his
shoulders. At first this quiets him; he feels
himself dominated by me, and does not struggle
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