Tuesday, January 12:
A sleepless night was made bearable for me by the sight of the starlit sky. At dawn I fell asleep and then woke up. Richard is well. Last night we had a moment of strain, because he did not want to dictate to me out of concern for my condition, and I urgently begged him to. But I gave in when I saw his great reluctance and his anxiety, and yesterday evening ended with the first canto of the Iliad. After such a moment of discord, however trivial, it is true happiness to exchange kind looks again.
Eva still looking rather pale; I spend all morning with the children. Loldi often speaks of Loulou, which makes me glad and sad at the same time. She remembers the children’s room in Munich in detail, and Eva cries out “Loulou, Loulou,” as if trying to recall a dream.
At lunch Richard tells me that he has been thinking a lot about his Nibelungen, and, he adds jokingly, it has made him feel very puffed up. It makes me happy to see him thinking of his divine work without repugnance.
Apart from that, the Odyssey still forms the main topic of our conversation. Also Beethoven’s symphonies: yesterday it was the A Major, with reference to the trio of the Presto, which German conductors always turn into a “Grandfather’s Dance,” whereas the tempo should quite unnoticeably become slower and the manner of playing should mark the great difference; today the F Major, in the first movement not a single repetition, yet everything seems the same.
Richard has often pointed out to me with what sure instinct Beethoven in the symphonies, except for the Ninth, in which he uses words as a reconciling element, avoids touching on the regions in which he lets himself go in the more intimate forms of quartet and sonata. He knew that he was speaking to the people, and that here certain accents are out of place unless accompanied and softened by words.
After lunch a short sleep and a walk by myself in the garden. The cold has arrived; grass and trees are covered with frost. In this solitary hour I thought only of you, my children. I thought with apprehension of the future: if it should really be my lot to be separated from you, and if you should then find your mother’s actions incomprehensible, may the heavens be merciful and grant me death!
I have not selfishly pursued happiness; I have done only what could not have been done in any other way, and my only, yet heartfelt, pride is that I have helped and still help as far as I am able. Always remember, my children, that true peace will come to you only from complete dedication; the sufferings which flow from this source are unceasing, too, but gentle.
From the garden to the children. There Richard found me; when he came in he was cheerful, indeed boisterous. My long meditation has tired me; also, I had been expecting him to bring me a letter from Munich, and since that was not the case, I felt sad. But I soon overcame it.
In the evening, dictation; R. started off with great reluctance, but soon began to remember. We parted at about eleven, after having completed four pages. A sentence concerning a remark by Isolde omitted as untranslatable.
Talking of the world situation and a possible major upset this year, Richard said: “Even when one’s expectations are blackly pessimistic, one is still being too optimistic, for things always come about by halves and loaded with so many compromises that only the baser elements gain anything. The only consolation is that the unworthy things are also incapable of starting anything.”
He added that twice in his life he had felt good and worthy: at the beginning of his exile, when, relieved of everything, he possessed and desired nothing; and in Vienna, after the Tannhäuser fiasco in Paris, when he had severed all ties and was not indebted to a single mortal soul.