Sunday, November 13:
To Marie M. Nothing of significance; the German question seems to be held up by Bavaria. My mother writes me a long letter which shows that a mind drilled in French can never shake itself free of its fantasies! Richter goes to see Fra Diavolo, which starts R. talking about Auber and Rossini, allowing the former distinct precedence in regard to invention, wit, freedom from convention, but the latter in regard to feeling (example: the last act of Otello) and melodic flow.
In the afternoon, during their siesta time, Jakob comes in to announce that a woman brought back my wedding ring, which she had found on the parade ground—where I had not even been. What a remarkable stroke of fortune! Must I not gratefully recognize that the gods are kind and favorably disposed toward me? Amid ancient errors committed by me, which wrapped a veil around me, they have led me gently but firmly to the point at which I recognize where a woman’s duty and happiness lie. Even in little individual happenings I must recognize the kindly hand!
I tell R. that when I was searching for the ring on the road to Hergeschwyl I had mechanically repeated the little prayer of my searching childhood to Saint Antony of Padua. “Oh, you Age of Reason!” exclaims R. But to be happy is divine! R. embraces me in love and cries out to me, “You eternal ‘Prize Song’ of my life!” He repeats that he cannot even imagine what his life would be without me; he has no idea what would have become of him—“certainly an eccentric of the most reprehensible kind.”
We continue in the evening with Ranke; during this R. remarks that we have great historical researchers, but no writers of history to compare with the French and the English as far as the art of description is concerned.