Saturday, January 16:
Two months ago today I said goodbye to you, children; my heart is heavy when I think of it, and I am without any news of you! In order to get a little sleep I had a warm drink late last night; I went to sleep at once, but soon woke up again and thought of you. I desire nothing in this world but to be allowed to help my beloved, to give him some tranquil years of life, and to bring you up. Gladly will I sacrifice everything, everything, my contacts with the world, all music; will bear all disgrace, if only this is granted me!
R. wished me good morning with the Meistersinger theme. He is well and has had a reassuring letter from Dresden, Mitterwurzer; he is glad that he does not need to go. The newspapers report that the King is giving many audiences; with a smile we observe that he is at last doing what we long in vain asked him to do!
I am apprehensive about Munich, all this silence; even the painter Lenbach, who was always good and loyal to me and promised to write, is silent. I stay with the children and write to Claire, asking her to find out news about Loulou and Boni. R. writes letters and turns down the invitation to Dresden. But he is not well; I am quite prepared to attribute it to the bad weather and the overcast sky, but all the same it worries me.
We start talking about Schopenhauer, and he tells me Schopenhauer once said to Karl Ritter, “I admire Wagner as a poet, but he is no musician.” [Added in the margin: “Schopenhauer said: I admire how Wagner in his Nibelungen brings the dark, legendary figures humanly near to us. Then: He is a poet, but no musician.”] R. is amused by Schopenhauer’s use of the old-fashioned word “admirieren” but says it is at any rate better than if he had acknowledged him to be a musician and not a poet.
After lunch the little Buddha, an earlier present of my mother’s to Wagner, arrived, as well as the letters to his wife. Much good humor at their safe arrival. Richard says I have brought sense into his life and awakened in him a pleasure in good order. How glad he makes me with such statements!
He plays the piano, the children come down and dance with me. Then he has more Rienzi trouble, the French. He goes for a walk and I stay with Schiller. Much delight and uplift from some of the poems, The Words of Error and Fortune. No letter from the children. Richard and I in low spirits because of it. A quiet evening, no dictation.