Sunday, January 10:
Slight disappointment that the pen I had sent from New York for R. does not write well. I note this down because it bothered me during the night, and I had the feeling that my earlier luck has deserted me in the little as in the big things. Sleepless night with much worry about the children’s future. Melancholy thoughts about my own upbringing, fears that I would not be able to bring up my children in accordance with my own ideas.
Richard also none too well, but cheerful. Went for a walk with the two children, both well. Ate with them afterward. Later with Richard at table, arrival of the next installment of Fröbel’s article on Opera and Drama. Though R. burned it without reading it, the mere thought of the unworthiness of people is upsetting. The King’s silence is also curious and unkind.
R.’s great depression in connection with his work, he really feels like abandoning the musical completion of his Nibelungen entirely. My objections only serve to increase his mood of dejection. I go sadly to lie down, R. goes off to town. Then with the children.
In the evening, to my great joy, resumption of the dictation. Before going off to bed I say to R., “If only I could bring you real joy!” Deep melancholy grips me at the thought of his mood during the day, when he went through all his relationships and found not one of them serious and deep. Worst of all, his experiences with the King. We spoke of the possibility of spending our future life in a garret in Paris. A living room and two little bedrooms for ourselves and the children. God knows what Fate has in store for us.