Sunday, September 1:
When I tell R. my dream and say it dealt with a time before he loved me, he replies, “You foolish woman, as if we could love each other now as we do, if we had not always loved each other!”
We come by chance to talk about the curiously lax attitude of Catholics among the ordinary people; R. calls it a lack of honor, and he agrees with me when I say that indulgences are to blame for people’s not being able to take anything seriously.
R. works; I with the children in the garden. In the afternoon I read my mother’s history of the Netherlands and find it excellent; I express to R. my surprise that W. of Orange has been so little used in tragedies, and he replies: “What do you expect? Eckert once composed him; he was his poet-murderer.” I am now reading Schiller on Bürger and have to take Schiller’s part; there is a note of ignoble sentimentality in Schlegel.
A letter from my father has not yet arrived; the children in church; R. at work, I with Fidi in the garden. In the afternoon with the children in the park; they play. R. joins us at the playground, brings a nice letter from my father, and we resolve to make the journey. Hasty packing during the evening.