Monday, December 23:
R. works on his article about our journey for Fritzsch’s newspaper; I am busy more or less from morning till evening on the Christmas tree, gilding, decorating, spurring on.
Yesterday evening R. was worried because of Rus, which grieves me very much; he does not want to see him left alone in the yard, and I had in fact given orders to leave him out in the yard, since he is very big and not very clean. That hurts R., and once again I silently resolve not to do anything to offend him and to be better at guessing what his views are, since he has so much, so very much trouble to put up with.
While I am at work on the tree, our excellent dean arrives and spends part of the evening with us. He tells me how beautifully R. spoke yesterday, how, without excitement but with a very great calm warmth, he said the things necessary to improve the atmosphere; he says, “I wanted to say something myself, to come to poor Mattenheimer’s aid, but I could not think what to say; he rescued everything.”
R. tells me he cannot make witty speeches; in conversation, yes, he can make witty remarks and crack jokes, but deliberately to make a long witty speech, that he cannot do; on such occasions he has to be serious. After the dean has gone, I continue with the decorations and by eleven am finished except for a few little details.