Wednesday, August 24:
To remind me that we should never lose sight of the seriousness of life, my Loldi is so unwell that she will not be able to attend the wedding tomorrow; we shall leave Eva with her for company. And so a veil is cast over the happy ceremony. R. drives to town to make the last preparations, and I explain to the children what is happening tomorrow. They weep with me and then smile with me, too, and finally Boni laughs, almost out loud: “You are marrying Uncle Richard.”
We are very moved by the description of the battle at Wörth and its conclusion with the hymn “Nun danket alle Gott.” The French newspapers continue to spread lies, they say that the Germans maltreat the wounded and that they seize all the young French people and force them to fight in the front line; these lies are responsible for all the terrible reprisals practiced by the French. Napoleon has demanded to return to Paris, so that he can die beneath its walls, Palikao has replied they have no use for him, and if he really means what he says about dying, he can do that just as well in Reims.
R. explains to us the whole operation against Bazaine, and we have to admire the cleverness of this plan. A soldier can feel it, too, says R., when he is being led well; like a member of an orchestra under a good conductor, each discovers the right way for himself, but the correct tempo must be given.
Visit of Frl. Meysenbug with a professor from Palermo (Balerna?), who is extremely well disposed toward the Germans. R. tells me jokingly that I will be annoyed at the lack of ancient symbolism in the Protestant marriage ceremony; we go on to talk about the ugly habit of gaping at weddings; all society is interested in is mine and thine, and the church is also concerned exclusively with this theme, thou hast and thou hast not, and thy reward is in Heaven!
The newspapers are constantly filled with shocking reports about the kindness of the German women toward French officers, so that they can make use of their little bit of French. “It is a great shame,” says R., “that the Germans no longer beat their women; if that custom were to return, we should experience a revolution in the literature of today.” I suggest an auto-da-fé of chignons, crinolines, etc., on the Odeonsplatz in Munich.
R. told us at lunch that during the consecration of the July Revolution memorial column (for which ceremony Berlioz wrote the music) he heard behind him a curious dialect which he at once recognized as German but could not properly understand; it came from a Lorrainean peasant. “So they are still Germans, I thought to myself, but it made me feel as sad as hearing birdsong in autumn.”
I am writing this at Loldi’s bedside; I am concerned about her; our good Richter is to blame for her illness, because he allowed her to swim and kept her too long in the cold water. I have difficulty in restraining R. from showing Richter his annoyance over his lack of caution. Every worry is for me a warning sign, and I know that it must be thus; God give me the grace never again to cause suffering to anyone, knowingly or unknowingly!