Sunday, July 31:
Peace again in the house; the previous turmoil still pursues me in bad dreams.
I have forgotten to note down that last Thursday we gave our children great joy with a visit to Tribschen of 15 trained dogs, mostly poodles. The day before I had promised them a party of children in fine jackets and pink hats, and when the very handsome, dressed-up dogs arrived in a cart, together with their trainer and a barrel organ, the jubilation was huge. The grownups in the household enjoyed themselves no less, and the dogs, who were given lumps of sugar, and the Italians, who put them through their tricks, did not go unrewarded.
France needs a Moltke cure, says R. when we discuss the incredible insolence and mendaciousness of the French behavior. A day and evening of lovely peace; R. drinks his beer in the garden outside the house, and the passing mention of a line in Hamlet brings him to a comparison between Sh[akespeare] and Beethoven; as in Shakespeare the characters, so in Beethoven the melodies—unmistakable, incomparable, an entire, inexplicable world.