Tuesday, August 13:
R. slept well, but his catarrhal condition, slight bronchitis, has still not quite cleared up. He works all the same, and we spend a happy time drinking coffee in the summerhouse. “Here, here, beloved, let us stay,” says R.
An English illustrated periodical with pictures of Bristol reminds us that R. once thought of hiding himself away with me there. A play called Garrick in Bristol, seen in Dresden, gave him such a good impression of the ancient town. Today is an anniversary of the festival; friend Wolzogen sends us some nice roses and some nice words. Otherwise all is still, nobody has remembered the day, and we feel genuinely happy in our solitude. We go to see our friend, who is unfortunately not well, and silently celebrate the occasion; a raw wind is blowing, and R. feels run down; he should never leave Wahnfried, he feels.
In the evening Boni continues reading us the pamphlet. “Evil things I there espy.”