Monday, February 6:
Nice letter from the painter Vecht about Beethoven. Luise Bulow writes a fine and composed letter to Loulou. Her son fell while crying out, "Dear Fatherland, you can rest in peace": everything noble must always be mixed with a grain of absurdity, says R.
I drive to town and there encounter Countess Bassenheim, awaiting the arrival of the French. She invites me to watch the spectacle, too, but I decline, for the sight would either sadden or disgust me.
In the evening, Gibbon.
I forgot to note yesterday that, when R. went out after supper to get a breath of fresh air, he suddenly returned and asked Richter and me to follow him. We did so, and outside we heard the sound of a soft male voice; it came from the dark groom's lodge beside the stable: our new servant Jakob was singing alone out into the dark night. It moved us very much.
R. went over and knocked; a rough voice replied, and the man who had been singing so peacefully said in his harsh prose, "Who's there?" But he was pleased by R.'s interest and was given cider.
I send the letter off to Councilor Duflipp.