Sunday, July 24:
I am sad, sad, and the doctor, reporting that two villages near Offenburg have been burned down by the Turcos, does not exactly raise my spirits. I continue translating at Eva’s bedside; family lunch; we drink a toast to General Moltke.
In the afternoon Judith, in the evening a boat ride “at the silencing of the light,” as R. says. Fireworks on Mount Pilatus, later quartets by Beethoven. Eva still unwell. A report about 6,000 Austrians who have joined the French—a report coming from the French—annoys us profoundly, and R. demands of our friends that they understand how much we hate the French character.