Thursday, September 22:
A letter to R. from a poor widow touches me, particularly since she appeals to him in the name of our marriage; I write to Düfflipp on her behalf. R. is looking for a publisher for his Beethoven. For the first time for several days German dispatches again: Paris is surrounded and the Corps Vinoy has been beaten by the Prussians at Lagny. Also the Italians are in Rome. The French are devastating their forests, pulling down their villas; like children they show their bravery in vandalism.
Our poor Jakob is in pain, I talk to the doctor, but he is not worried; Fidi has a cold, is hoarse and feverish. In the afternoon a visit from Mme Stockar-Escher, sister of Alfred Escher, who is very well known in Switzerland; she is one of R.’s oldest friends, he lived in her house in Zurich, and his dog Peps is buried in her garden. R. takes pleasure in introducing me to her, but after she is gone he says, “It seems to me so trivial to refer to you merely as ‘my wife,’ and I wonder how people must feel who previously used to see me, also with my wife.” For me, on the other hand, it is a matter of the greatest pride to hear myself called his wife, and I can only counter my feelings of unworthiness by thinking in the morning with heartfelt gratitude of everything I have gained, and in the evening by immersing myself in rueful meditation on my unworthiness.
Read Schopenhauer. (R. writes to Frau v. Schleinitz, Pusinelli, etc., etc.)