Monday, January 18:
A better night, which I owe to the great extent of my worries; there comes a moment when the mind can no longer bear the load of all one’s thoughts and takes refuge in sleep. Finished Wallenstein in the morning.
How can we ever praise a poet enough who can take us right out of ourselves? I have always been especially affected by this particular work, in which a great spirit shows us the petty activities of the world in their largest dimensions, entertains us with the events, and uplifts us with his own feelings. Shakespeare’s dramas are more powerful, more daemonic, more shattering; Goethe’s style more tender perhaps, more intimate, more subtle; Calderon’s fantasies more singular, more passionate and melancholy, but for me Schiller’s creations remain the most affecting. For me it is as if he has found the right way of showing mankind its own image so as to give it courage. He is a benefactor of mankind, and the scope of his genius is not lessened by the fact that he avoids certain regions.
In Gordon’s words [in Wallenstein]—misfortune has hope, fortune fear as its companion—lies for me the whole enigma of life: thus it is on earth, my children, that is how the poets see it and that is how we experience it.
Many newspapers came today, much news of musical activities. It all seems a grand muddle. Toward noon R. came up to see me, looking very gloomy; he feels set against completing his work. He began it, he says, at a time when life was to him a fantastic image, and now, when it has been given a basis through me and the children, he feels he could make better use of his powers than writing scores which will never be produced and will mean nothing to anybody.
When I replied that times would change, he answered: “At best they will be terrible, at best they will become puritanical, and my work has no place there. But it would still be a thousand times better than the present situation.” I find this a terrible statement; I feel that there can be no blessing on our bond if the Nibelungen remains unfinished. That R.’s state of health is just as much to blame for his lack of sympathy with his true calling as a passing glance at the world outside is no consolation for the pain I feel over his words; but I continue to hope that his God, the one that dwells in his own breast, will not forsake him.
The children are playing beside me and keeping me from giving way to miserable thoughts. After lunch R. to town and I into the garden; I am still occupied with Wallenstein. In this rereading, it has struck me above all that one is downright glad to see the hero suffering, Max’s death, Buttler’s treachery, and, however much one is affected by his fate, one has absolutely no desire to rescue him from it, for his downfall and the treachery alone constitute his greatness; completely different from Götz or Egmont, for whom one feels as do Georg and Klärchen.
Very characteristically, Schiller has not given this ambitious, coolly calculating, yet rashly fanciful being a companion spirit true unto death, except for the sister, who, however, does not die with him, but falls with him. Wonderful is the absence of pathos in W.’s last appearance. It is as if, though not knowing he is to die, he is nevertheless aware of finality; calm and manly, he awaits his end.
From reflecting on this work just read, my thoughts soon transferred themselves to you, my children, and I sent you peaceful, loving greetings from afar. Five times I walked through the entire grounds of Tribschen; dusk fell, sky, mountains, lake stood gray and stiff before me like an impenetrable, threefold wall, and then there rose a sun in my soul. I felt inside me, deep and true, that you would remain by me, my children, whatever the world might do with me.
Hardly had this light flared up in me in the enveloping darkness when I heard my name being called; R. had returned home, joyfully bringing me a letter from you. You are well and good and cheerful; your mother in her longing, melancholy happiness blesses you. In his unutterable kindness toward me R. was visibly full of cheer after handing me the letter.
We went up to the children; Eva well and unruly, Loldi very peculiar. She had dropped a piece of wood. Eva picked it up and held it out to her, but she did not take it. “Take it and thank Eva,” I said. At last, after long hesitation, she took it, but then went to the stove, picked up, without my seeing it, a large piece of wood, came back with it to me on the couch, and threw it at Eva, so close that it missed the little one by only a hair.
To my astonished question why she had picked up the wood and thrown it, she replied, “Because I don’t like the wood.” I punished her, showed her what she might have done, she showed regret, but the whole thing remains a puzzle to me.
In the evening dictation, four large pages. How dearly I should like to stay up and write to you, children, but I promised R. to go to bed soon. So good night, my dear creatures, your mother is with you all.
(This evening R. pointed out to me that all the great poets, with the exception of Homer and Dante, were dramatists.)