Saturday, 16 August 1873

We went into town; I bought a veil for the journey. At three o'clock we leave the hotel and go to the Westbahn. Paul went several times to inquire about the train's departure, and he did not know precisely — we arrived too early.
It is a wasted day — we could have gone to the Exposition and dined there. In the waiting room I was reading Le Capitaine Pamphile; Paul reads nothing but Dumas fils. This Pamphile is heavy, monotonous, and the style is poor. At last we depart. We pass as in a dream Vienna, Schonbrunn, the villas — then everything passes, and there we are in the midst of woods and meadows.
It is strange — only yesterday we were at the Grand Hotel; at seven we were going to the Exposition, taking a stroll. And all at once here we are in a railway carriage, carried away. And in a few hours — one has not time to gather one's thoughts — when one is far off, one passes towns, villages, forests, cottages, people. In every little house they live, they love, they quarrel, they fret; every human being one sees pass by, smaller than a fly, has [Crossed out: also] joys and sorrows, and seen from the carriage they seem like dolls going back and forth. But look into the heart of each, and you will find a world apart. Enough — when I want to say a great deal, I say nonsense or nothing.
In the evening they spoke of stopping at Baden, since we pass through it tomorrow. I should so like to go! Baden, which I love! Baden, the only place in the world where one can live without society! Baden, above everything in the world!