Friday, August 12:
My dear long life, R. exclaims to Fidi, who is now beginning to walk! As he embraces me, he says, “Yes, a fair wife, that is something poor Beethoven did not have, it was reserved for poor old me, which is why I have such ridiculous faith in myself.”
Letter from Hans Herrig, as remarkable and original as ever. No news of the war, just constant horrible weather, which must make marching very difficult for our fine soldiers, God be with them. The newspapers are printing poems by Messrs. Freiligrath, Bodenstedt, etc., etc., and R. remarks that in such times as these poets should meet the same fate as Cinna in Julius Caesar.
The hanging lamp is put up, but will not be used before Fidi’s christening. It pleases R. and is really handsome. R. on the Sonnenberg, I go to meet him on a typical Swiss evening: yodeling, cowbells, and church bells, yet in spite of it all great stillness and peace. The weather has cleared up a little, and late in the evening the moon shines down brightly on us. R. works on his Beethoven; we are without news. [End of the second notebook of the Diaries.]