Tuesday, August 23:
At Metz the French have fired on a soldier bearing a flag of truce and on his trumpeter; thus do they persist in their inhumanity. I write to Claire and explain to her the differences between the Germans and the French. Loldi still unwell, indeed worse than yesterday, which worries us; we shall not be married on Thursday, for I want none of the children to miss it. I write to Elisabeth Krockow.
In the afternoon R. reads aloud some of Beethoven’s letters; I feel as if I now understand everything. We talk about yesterday’s visit and then go on to talk of the surprise most people show in seeing our life here in Tribschen. “What odd ideas they have about it!” “Yes,” R. says, “about 5 months ago I received a letter from an anonymous woman, who told me she had wagered that I would not marry you. She asked me to tell her yes or no in the N. Nachrichten, saying my friends were worrying that you were a schemer, and the King was very angry about the rumor.”
One is always shocked by people’s maliciousness; what does such a woman, whom I have certainly never harmed, what does she get from reviling me in this way? Has not every woman a sphere in which she moves and works? By what right does such a one throw mud at another unknown to her? It cannot be envy, for nobody in the world can envy me now that I have withdrawn from the world.