Thursday, December 9:
Glorious day, blue sky and sunshine; R. works. I drive into town to do some Christmas shopping. Family lunch. Afterward a letter from Count Flavigny: he calls himself my uncle, but does not send me my money.
In the evening Tristram Shandy. Talking of the bust of [Wilhelmine] Schröder-Devrient, which always moves R., he tells me: "She was no longer very respectable when I came into contact with her, but for such a person, with that formidable talent, there was only one possible compensation, and that was sensuousness; without this she would have been unable to bear it." Wrote to Prof. Nietzsche.