Wednesday, September 8:
Correspondence of all kinds. R. reads me something he has written to an American; since the German princes are mentioned in it, I ask him not to send it. He angrily tears it up, and I ask myself whether success is worth all this trouble, whether a success of any kind can make up for a moment of ill humor!
But good spirits are soon restored. We set out on a fairly long walk; first stop at the Angermann vaults, Teniers surroundings, and Shakespeare conversations; then on through the pretty countryside in a splendid sunset.
In the evening I looked through Berlioz’s memoirs for the passages about Wilhelmine Schröder-Devrient, with dismay over the short-sightedness and narrow-mindedness of such a man, who could not recognize the greatness of this woman through all the shortcomings which her times, her dismal surroundings, and the base profession imposed on her.