Sunday, July 17:
Frightful thunderstorm; I declare that the gods are angry with the French. War has been declared; in Paris nothing but phrases. The Prussians quietly firm and resolved. R. says, “Typical of a Frenchman: he does not keep his word, but when one reminds him of it, one is obliged to fight a duel with him.” And: “The French are the putrefaction of the Renaissance.”
I am so beside myself that I fear becoming a burden to R., but he calls me his life-giver, kind and loving as he always is.
Confidential talk with Herr Klindworth, who is departing for Germany and will see Hans there. I beg him to tell Hans everything I had intended to write to him. I am very moved by our conversation.
Klindworth finds R. rejuvenated and in his state of mind unrecognizable; Hans had told him that, if R. were ever again to write a single note, it would be thanks to me.
Letter from Herr Villiers, who sends his play and with typical French insolence makes fun of the excellent Prussians. R. is against his visit and says all our sympathies are with the Prussians.* We accompany Klindworth to the railroad station, a sad farewell.
In the morning I wrote to Claire and to L. Bucher. To the latter in order to express my complete sympathy with Prussia. Lucerne in a state of alarm; everybody worried—how hateful the French nation appears!