Wednesday, August 25:
Most unfortunately, R.'s night was not a good one, probably the food somewhat indigestible. But he is utterly delighted with my little present. For me the day passes in household arrangements, but he makes corrections in the copy of his article. At lunch we drink to the King in a sparkling local wine, also to ourselves and to Bürkel, and are in merry mood.
Several hours on the terrace; R. keeps saying, "This is Italy, in contrast to Africa." When we are talking of the curiously passionate quality of our house moving, R. says, "In people of our sort excess is aimed solely at procuring a pleasant tranquillity, so that the spirit can roam free." We go for a walk in the vineyards, but R. feels slightly unwell; in the evening it looks as if he has caught a cold, and I am as full of concern as he is of vexation.