Saturday, September 6:
I go to the garden to listen to a reading by our friend Schure on the history of music and poetry. In the garden I meet our friend Kietz, who has come here, really and truly, at R.’s behest to make a bust of me, which gives me little pleasure. Schure’s work, apart from a few bits of Alsatiana, is very interesting. He really has under stood R.
On returning home, R. reads me a nice letter from Hoffmann, our painter; he seems to be a very decent man. But where is the aid? The King keeps silent. R. jokes that he is singing the words from the requiem, ad patronem. My father sends notepaper and many French books, among them Littre’s dictionary and a work by Princess W[rttgenstein]. The dedication to my father is enough in itself to show what a gulf lies between us. I find it incomprehensible that a woman should publicly address the man she loves in such terms!
For this half of the day we were in good spirits, but at the house R. met with such real vexations that he exclaimed, “We shall be moving into our grave before we move into our house!” Besides that comes the news week; his adjutant has announced a visit to the historical society. He wants to see the documents. A real blow for us, however the visit turns out, whether he shows any interest in the theater or not, in either case it is awkward.
The evening arrives: the dean, Feustel, who reports that Bismarck is again in disgrace, Kietz, Schure, and Malwida. R. is very agitated. Before the arrival of the guests I had conversed with Schure in French, as was our habit in the past, and that also annoyed him, and he hardly departs from the topic of France and Germany all evening. This makes me feel embarrassed, particularly for Schure, who strikes me as defenseless here. When the guests leave early, I unfortunately remark to R. that the evening was uncomfortable, and he gets very angry!