Saturday, August 24:
Yesterday R. received a reply from the lady in Bonn, the one who asked him to set a Geibel poem to music; it is really too stupid for words. R. had written to her of his “bunglings”; to that she replies that he should not underestimate his value! “The degree of idiocy,” says R., “is truly immeasurable.”
R. works on his essay; I write to Countess Dönhoff and Marie M., who is again opening the subject of a visit to my father; she advises me strongly to tell him I am coming. But as my father has kept silent toward me since Frau v. M.’s visit here, I do not consider this advisable.
In the afternoon the tenor Diener, with whom R. is so satisfied that he feels he can soon release him. Walk with the children; Schweizerei and Wolfsschlucht.
In the evening read Gibbon again. R. then shows me a telegram which he is sending to Pastor Tschudi, announcing a contribution to the church: “That is the only thing I can give you for tomorrow as a present.”