Cosima's Diaries

Recordings by Cosima Wagner between 1869 and 1883

Cosima Wagner’s diaries are one of the most extraordinary inner records of nineteenth-century artistic life: part household chronicle, part spiritual notebook, part Bayreuth archive, and part psychological portrait of Wagner’s final years. Across thousands of entries, we see the daily world behind the myth: children, servants, illness, money, visitors, letters, rehearsals, readings, quarrels, weather, politics, music, and moments of almost mystical illumination. The diaries follow Wagner from the intimate Tribschen years through the creation of Bayreuth, the triumph and crisis of the 1876 Ring Festival, the making of Parsifal, the rise and collapse of the Nietzsche relationship, and the darker ideological currents that increasingly gathered around Wahnfried, including Wagner and Cosima’s antisemitism. They are not a neutral record, nor always a comfortable one, but they are indispensable: a vast, intimate, often beautiful, often disturbing window into the household where Wagner’s final works, his self-mythology, and the Bayreuth idea took shape.

The diary entries gathered here cover the years from January 1869 to February 1883, carrying the reader from the last Tribschen years to Wagner’s final days in Venice. Their breadth is astonishing. They are at once a household record, an artistic logbook, a spiritual notebook, a political barometer, and the intimate chronicle of a private circle attempting to become a public institution. Cosima records children’s illnesses, lessons, servants, meals, letters, debts, travel, weather, music-making, rehearsals, guests, books, dreams, religious reflections, and Wagner’s daily moods. The sublime and the administrative are never far apart. A passage on Schopenhauer, Shakespeare, Calderón, Beethoven, or Christ may sit beside anxieties about singers, money, doctors, railway journeys, or household arrangements.

The early years, especially 1869 to 1871, still belong largely to the private world of Tribschen. They are filled with the pressures surrounding Cosima’s separation from Hans von Bülow, her union with Richard Wagner, the birth and childhood of Siegfried, and the intense domestic enclosure in which Wagner’s later work was nurtured. Yet the outside world continually enters: King Ludwig, Munich theatrical politics, the Franco-Prussian War, German nationalism, and the first sustained appearances of Friedrich Nietzsche. Wagner’s work on Siegfried and the wider Ring is recorded not as a distant masterpiece but as something happening in rooms, at the piano, amid children, letters, exhaustion, and sudden exaltation.

From 1871 onward, the diaries begin to turn toward Bayreuth. At first it appears as an idea, almost a visionary solution to the failures of ordinary theatres. Soon it becomes practical reality: sites, architects, patrons, Wagner societies, subscriptions, guarantees, construction, copyists, singers, scenery, and the immense labour of creating a theatre for one artistic purpose. The move to Bayreuth and the building of Wahnfried do not simplify life. They intensify it. The diaries show Bayreuth not merely as a shrine, but as a project beset by money, politics, vanity, devotion, incompetence, faith, and fatigue.

The approach to the 1876 Ring cycle dominates the middle years. The Festival is presented as the culmination of decades of artistic striving, but Cosima’s record makes clear how fragile the whole enterprise was. Every singer, rehearsal, costume, curtain, orchestral problem, and financial arrangement seems capable of threatening the ideal. After the Festival, the tone shifts sharply. The achievement has happened, but its aftermath is troubled by deficit, press hostility, uncertainty about future performances, the proposed Society of Patrons, the founding of the Bayreuther Blätter, and the London concerts undertaken to repair the damage. Bayreuth has succeeded as revelation, but it has also become a burden that must somehow survive in the world.

After 1876, Parsifal gradually becomes the spiritual centre of the diaries. The entries from 1877 to 1882 increasingly revolve around its poem, score, staging, rehearsals, religious atmosphere, and practical realization. The world of the Grail enters the daily life of Wahnfried: Gurnemanz, Kundry, Amfortas, Klingsor, the Flower Maidens, the Temple, the Communion imagery, the question of sacred drama, and the problem of presenting a work that seems to demand reverence from a public theatre. At the same time, Wagner’s health, his travels, his growing weariness, and the family’s movements through Italy and Venice give the later diaries a more autumnal character.

The diaries must also be read with full awareness of their antisemitism. This is not a marginal feature. In the early years, anti-Jewish remarks often cluster around the controversy of Wagner’s Judaism in Music, hostile critics, the press, Meyerbeer, musicians, theatre politics, and questions of assimilation. By the later 1870s and early 1880s, the tone changes. Antisemitism becomes more sweeping, more political, and more programmatic. The entries increasingly connect Jews with finance, journalism, liberalism, modernity, social decay, and Germany’s loss of spiritual identity. The diaries also record Wagner and Cosima reading or discussing figures such as Disraeli, Stoecker, Gobineau, and writings on the so-called Jewish question. By 1881, this hostility has hardened into open sympathy for anti-Jewish agitation and fantasies of expulsion, separation, or emigration. The development is ugly, historically important, and inseparable from the world these diaries disclose.

That ugliness is made more complex, not less, by the fact that Jewish individuals remain present in Wagner’s life and work: friends, patrons, musicians, correspondents, and, most famously in the late Bayreuth circle, Hermann Levi. The diaries therefore reveal not a simple contradiction but a deeper moral failure: Wagner and Cosima could depend on, admire, or work intimately with individual Jews while still interpreting Jewishness itself through hostile and dehumanizing abstractions. Any serious encounter with these diaries must resist both sanitizing this material and reducing the whole archive to it.

The Nietzsche story forms another major arc. In 1869, Nietzsche enters as a brilliant young philologist and soon becomes a cherished visitor, correspondent, and intellectual ally. The early diaries record excitement over his writings, especially the work that would become central to the Wagnerian cause, The Birth of Tragedy. During the Bayreuth years he appears as part of the wider hope for a new German culture, one that might unite art, philosophy, and spiritual renewal. Yet the relationship gradually frays. His ill health, his independence, the influence of Paul Rée, his rejection of Schopenhauer, and the publication of Human, All Too Human transform him in the Wagners’ eyes from disciple into apostate. By the later entries, Nietzsche is remembered with bitterness, as a figure of disappointment, ingratitude, and betrayal.

What makes these diaries invaluable is precisely their mixture of greatness and blindness. They reveal the daily climate in which Wagner’s late works were conceived, defended, mythologized, and institutionalized. They show Bayreuth being born out of metaphysical ambition and practical desperation. They show Parsifal emerging from religious longing, theatrical calculation, bodily decline, and cultural polemic. They show friendship turning into estrangement, devotion turning into dogma, and spiritual aspiration entangled with prejudice. To read Cosima’s diaries is to enter the workshop, chapel, battlefield, and household of Wagner’s final years.

Year

Month

1869• 1870• 1871• 1872• 1873• 1874• 1875• 1876• 1877• 1878• 1879• 1880• 1881• 1882• 1883

Jan• Feb• Mar• Apr• May• Jun• Jul• Aug• Sep• Oct• Nov• Dec

Showing entries for February 1869 (26 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
February 1, 1869	440	News from the Munich children gives Cosima a good morning, but Richard is soon undone by botched Italian and Parisian proofs and by poor health. A disagreement over Schopenhauer wounds both of them and sends Cosima into renewed meditation on sacrifice, duty, and whether her life with Richard can be reconciled with her children. The day closes with Richard reading correspondence, while Cosima clings to the daily task as the form duty takes.	Monday, February 1: A good morning: it brought me news of the Munich children. Richard, however, is vexed by mail from Italy: proofs. He says he would like to announce in all newspapers that he lives only through me, then hear nothing more. I let the children come downstairs; much joy from their liveliness and their good health. But the day soon clouds over. When I went down to see how R. was faring, the poor man was quite beside himself. The botched scores which he receives constantly from Italy and Paris, and the stupid waste of time caused by them, upset him so; and he is unwell, too! When I later rejoined him at lunch, he had restored his spirits a little with Schopenhauer. He read me some of it during the meal, among other things a little excursus about the old Cologne School; since I found this insignificant, not to say trivial, I voiced my feelings. To my profound regret R. misunderstood me and took my reply as evidence of ill humor toward him. He became angry, leaving me completely amazed and confused by his attitude. I went for a walk in the garden and considered in my heart what I had already so often considered: the meaning of life and our task within it. I know quite precisely that renunciation, self-sacrifice, is the only thing which gives our life value and meaning, and willingly I give up every happiness and every joy. If, through giving up everything and everybody, I would not become fully guilty of the murder of my beloved, how calmly would I go off and live for the children alone! Never, even in the hours of severest trial, have I seriously thought of parting from R., because I know nobody who loves him as I love him. If an angel were to come and tell me, “You are superfluous,” and to show me the prospect of a happy existence for him, how willingly would I embrace my cross, how calmly, my day’s work done, look Death in the face! I am utterly convinced that peace lies only in self-sacrifice, and it shocks me sometimes myself, the fact that it looks as if I had arrogantly pursued my own happiness. It seems like a contradiction between the way I think and the way I act, and yet I know that what urged me on was nothing selfish. All the same, I question myself often, question myself as to whether I did the right thing. Then the daily task comes to my aid; to deal with that is to perform one’s duty, according to Goethe. R. reads to me from the correspondence.
February 2, 1869	313	Candlemas brings overcast light, talk of Greek oracles, reassuring photographs from the King, and relief that Pasdeloup's bankruptcy may prevent Rienzi in Paris. Dictation leads Cosima to see 1858 as the true turning point in Richard's fate and to imagine that her own role might have been unnecessary had earlier love been nobly handled. Richard's poor appearance, political talk of Bismarck, and her own lost courage leave her resigned to suffering everything through to the end.	Tuesday, February 2: Candlemas, no sun and yet sun; the farmers want an overcast sky, and now it is indeed overcast, but a ray of sunshine breaks through. This brings our table conversation to the words of the oracle and the Greeks, in particular the Dorians. A letter from Hermine; the King has sent me three photographs. I am glad, for there seems to be no catastrophe in the offing. R. has received from Paris the very pleasant news that Pasdeloup has gone bankrupt, which means nothing will come of Rienzi. Walk in the garden in the dark. Hearing dogs bark in the distance, scattered lights shining in the lake; Tribschen itself is in darkness. After tea, dictation. It appears to me that the year 1858 was the true turning-point in R.’s destiny, and if Frau W[esendonck] had conducted herself well then, all the perplexities up to the appearance of the King could have been spared him. Then my participation in his life would also have been superfluous, even if we should always have loved each other deeply. This feeling makes me despondent. Above all, however, R.’s appearance, which is not good. Oh, if he could only be quite well again! The mild, unhealthy weather may also be to blame for his poor appearance. Bismarck’s boastful behavior in the Chamber (“the reptiles and the miserable dynastic interests”) gave R. a lot of joy. He returns to his letter to the Countess. Why do I stop him? It is surely very timid of me. Why have I lost all my courage, except the courage to suffer? If only I could see R. happy again and free of all care! But the gods are unmerciful; even if I were willing to purchase this happiness at the price of my total annihilation, they would still not grant it to me. Everything must be suffered to the end, my poor good children!
February 3, 1869	48	A quiet day reaches its happy peak with the arrival of a Paris music box that delights Loldi and Eva. Beneath that domestic pleasure, Cosima remains full of suppressed tears because Richard is suffering and she feels unable to help him. The day ends simply with dictation, keeping work and affection in motion despite her sadness.	Wednesday, February 3: Quiet day, its happy climax the arrival of the music box from Paris. Loldi and Eva blissful, so we, too, glad. Otherwise my heart is full of repressed tears. Richard is suffering so much; if only I could help! Oh, we poor mortal creatures! Evening, dictation.
February 4, 1869	151	Richard's health returns after a bath, and his revived eyes restore Cosima's own sense of light. He writes, works on the score, and later comes to her deeply moved by the Nibelungen, while she fears the strain such emotion may place on him. A walk with Loldi and a fiery sunset connect the day's hope to Wagner's early letters, poetry, and the mingled symbols of sunset and star.	Thursday, February 4: R. well again; a bath helped him. His eyes gleam, and so my star is now shining again, too. In cheerful mood he writes letters and works on his score. After lunch I took a long walk with Loldi and watched a wonderfully exuberant sunset. Aglow with fire, one mountain was holding an exalted, silent conversation with the snow-covered, whitely gleaming mountain opposite. Light and heat, sun-drenched snow summit and sun-sparkling earth mass were telling each other things I did not understand; then both gave way to the majesty of night. In the morning I had been rereading the first letters R. wrote me, from Starnberg, and the accompanying poem about the sunset and the star. In the evening R. came up to my room, much affected by his Nibelungen work; I responded to his mood hardly at all, for I fear the effect of such excitement on his health. Dictation.
February 5, 1869	258	A silver morning opens into a quiet, active day as Richard becomes absorbed in the Nibelungen and speaks solemnly with Cosima about Schnorr's unforgettable singing. A radiant sunset leads her to contrast earthly life with the bright realm of art and love, and Richard's gift of camellias becomes linked to her wish that Siegfried flourish. Evening dictation is interrupted by a small misunderstanding, but no real discord follows.	Friday, February 5: Silver morning, mist, sun, and water. Greetings, my dear children! The day was quiet and active; R. seems entirely absorbed in the Nibelungen, and our conversation at table was earnest, indeed almost solemn. We thought of Schnorr, the singer, and the last time he sang: the “Forging Songs,” “Now Begin,” Siegmund’s “Spring Song,” for the King and ourselves alone. The indelible impression of it resists both death and time. Glorious, cloudless sunset; the tender, rosy evening glow enfolds the snow-capped mountains and casts its reflection on the water, while a golden crown sinks down as if from the head of Mount Pilatus, between these two tones a pure, heavenly blue. The dark earth on which we wander resembles life, whereas the bright sky is art, or, better, love. One enters the house, after the heavenly vision has vanished, with one’s inner feelings in a peculiarly solemn mood. In pious concentration I think to myself that Paradise is only what we look at, observe; Paradise lost, on the other hand, is what we try to possess, grasp, and touch; in a word, the lost is the achieved. From town R. brought me two lovely camellias; may they flourish, for I shall tend them carefully. And may Siegfried also flourish! We are willing, are we not, my children, to bear a little suffering together on that account? My dear, good children! In the evening we had an interrupted dictation. I did not understand some of it and was foolish enough to say so, which caused a prolonged delay, though no real discord.
February 6, 1869	213	Cosima dreams of separation from Richard, reunion with the Munich children, and desperate attempts to reach him again in Paris. The day itself is filled with children, books, score work, letters, and telegrams announcing another great Meistersinger success, this time in Karlsruhe. Press hostility and distorted notices jar against their solitude, but an evening walk under the stars gives her a gentler close.	Saturday, February 6: Last night I dreamed of a separation from R., my return to Munich, and a reunion with the children. Boni was very affected, Loulou indifferent, and I felt I could not go on living. Floods of tears streamed from my eyes, and I asked all sorts of uncaring people how I could get to Paris, where Richard was staying. Children, books, score, some letters: thus was the day filled, for R. as well as for me. A telegram brought news of Die Meistersinger’s great success in Karlsruhe! A correspondent in Cologne brought to our notice the report in the Kölnische Zeitung concerning the Dresden success, which, says this friendly correspondent, would make Hiller and his comrades turn green and yellow with rage, for this large newspaper is literally bribed either to avoid all mention of Wagner’s successes or to put a smear on them. How strange and ugly seem even well-disposed notices from these spheres of the press, the theater, and the musical world of the present; how jarring in our solitude their screeching tones! To me it seems it is not power which makes an enemy worthy of respect, but his inner worth. Walk in the evening, the stars twinkling down on me one after another above the withered branches like friendly greetings.
February 7, 1869	286	On Saint Richard's Day, Cosima feels the pain of being unable to mark the occasion with a small gift, yet interprets deprivation as part of her vocation of loving renunciation. She walks beyond Tribschen's boundaries for the first time in months, uneasy about being seen but spared any encounter. Reports of Karlsruhe success suggest the public may be growing nervous about opposing Wagner, while she calmly accepts missing Tannhäuser in Basel and ends with the children's wellbeing.	Sunday, February 7: Restless night and severe headache. Today was Saint Richard’s Day; in earlier times I should never have let this day pass without reminding my beloved jokingly of his supposed patron saint with a little gift. Now I cannot, for what little I have of my own I left at the household in Munich, and so the small pleasure must be done without. Oh, I do not mind doing without things; it seems really always to have been my natural lot to abstain, to wish for nothing. I find it easy to believe that another age would have regarded me as a religious fanatic. Now love has got me fully in its grasp; I know nothing else and am willing to suffer in and for it. Since the weather was fine, R. invited me to go for a walk with him; I did so. For the first time in two and a half months I walked outside the boundaries of Tribschen, with some concern lest I be seen. But I noticed nobody. In the morning Levi, the conductor, sent a letter reporting the success of Die Meistersinger in Karlsruhe. As R. remarked at table, people are seeming to become a little nervous of being so much against him now, when, with his last work to be published, he has at the same time written his most popular. A performance of Tannhäuser is announced for tomorrow in Basel. Our people are going to it. How hard it would have been for me previously not to go; I believe virtually impossible, and how calmly I now bear what is for me truly a great deprivation! I feel very low and would so much like to be cheerful. The children are well.
February 8, 1869	186	A morning walk and greetings from Richard and the children begin a day dominated by letters about Meistersinger, the King's waning sympathy, and contradictory reports from Karlsruhe. An anonymous abusive note is immediately refuted by news of unprecedented success, exposing the malice around Wagner's reputation. With the household reduced, Cosima spends nearly the whole day in maternal duties, while Richard calls her the good mother and remarks that they have found happiness others will not let them enjoy.	Monday, February 8: I start the morning with a little walk. R. and the children greet me from various windows. At breakfast R. tells me of an enthusiastic letter from Mme Viardot about Die Meistersinger. Also one from Dr. Nohl in Munich; he says all the signs point to the fact that the King has no sympathy for R. and his cause! I am alarmed when R. admits to me that he had written to this Herr Nohl, telling him that he was expecting a break with the King any moment. Besides these two letters there is an anonymous one containing nothing but abuse and the news that Die Meistersinger was a failure in Karlsruhe. This pitiful scrap of paper arrives at the same time as the M.A.Z., which reports an unprecedented success in Karlsruhe. Today has belonged almost exclusively to the children, since the household is somewhat reduced. I share with them meals, games, walk, and R. calls me the good mother hen. He also said during the morning that we had already found happiness; it was just that nobody wanted us to enjoy it. In the evening, dictation.
February 9, 1869	609	Cosima and Richard discuss Marbach's Proteus, German incompleteness, and the difference between poetic structure and living substance. She proposes a plan to spend two months in Munich and return with all the children, but Richard can see only the pain of separation and refuses it. Ghost stories, Shrove Tuesday disappointment, searching questions about whether their love is morally wrong, and Calderon's uneven Great Zenobia leave her falling asleep absorbed in the plan.	Tuesday, February 9: During the night I again took up Proteus by Dr. Marbach, Richard’s brother-in-law, which we had read the evening before last. It is a remarkable production and testifies, like everything by Marbach, to a profound understanding of the subject; only the style, in spite of the very skillful construction, is much too flat. I told Richard that Marbach has the skeleton of a poet, but he lacks the flesh, whereas in people like Halm, Geibel, etc., etc., it is on the contrary precisely the bone structure which is lacking, for all their other talents. His, Marbach’s, contemplation of the subject is profound, but the thoughts which arise from it are paltry. How strange! Richard agrees, and says that is the remarkable thing about the Germans, that they have so many qualities which are all aimed in the direction of real significance, but emerge incomplete and unconnected and therefore remain barren. In the course of the morning we discuss our situation, which cannot go on much longer as it now is. I tell R. I should like to write Hans that I could come to the children in Munich for two months and return from there to Tribschen at the beginning of May with all four of them, going on from there to Paris. What I am trying to do is avoid making a commotion, for the sake of the children and the King, that is to say, Richard. Richard, however, can see only one thing, the two-month separation, and will not hear of it. Deep worry in my soul; I really do believe that this way out, in this temporary stage, would be the best. After lunch R. shows me Daumer’s Book of Ghosts. I read some of the stories in it: the dumb child whom his sisters one day forget to feed, to whom the ghost of his mother appears and gives him food, an event of which he tells his suddenly concerned sisters himself, the miracle having freed his tongue, and then he dies. We are quite shattered by it. “It would all depend on whether one has contact with friendly ghosts,” says Richard, who has a great tendency in this direction and has perhaps a deep, unconscious connection with these regions. Since it is Shrove Tuesday, R. goes into town to get me some doughnuts, but there are none left. A little disappointment and a great joy, a deep absorption in love. I always in tears, not knowing whether of joy or sorrow. In the evening I put to R. the question whether our love never appears to him to be wrong. He does not quite understand me and thinks I mean by this what the world considers wrong, the betrayal of a friend; then he says that he knows only one thing, that since the world came into existence no man of his age had loved a woman as much as he loved me. The wrong I meant was not, however, concerned with what other people condemn, but with what it would perhaps be right for us to do according to our own conceptions of life and virtue of the highest kind. I would like to receive my directions from him. We conclude the evening with Calderón’s Great Zenobia. A wonderful first act, an incomparable scene in the second, Zenobia and Decius on the battlefield, and an utterly absurd, puppetlike third act give us a great deal to think about and consider. I wish Richard could decide to write something about Calderón, for nothing exhaustive has yet been said about this remarkable poet, so difficult to grasp. In deep contemplation of my “plan” I fall asleep: “all crowns are dreams.”
February 10, 1869	487	A dream of bearing a son and the blooming of the camellia fill Cosima with hope for Siegfried and for her children's souls. Winckelmann's life, Wagner's Devrient article, Siegfried at the piano, and renewed declarations of mutual necessity deepen both inspiration and anxiety over how to bring the children to Tribschen. The evening combines delayed doughnuts, Durer's religious letter, and a Zurich musician's report that Wagner's old orchestral reforms have finally borne fruit.	Wednesday, February 10: In a dream I gave birth to a son. As I awoke and rose from my bed I found my camellia had blossomed; since I had involuntarily connected it in my mind with Siegfried, I am overjoyed. May the souls of my children blossom as handsomely and as tranquilly! In the morning read Winckelmann’s biography, Homo vagus et inconstans!, much moved. How clearly the German genius speaks in this man; the poor cobbler’s son, born in a land that at the time hardly possessed a language, bears within his spirit the Greek ideal. His conversion to Catholicism an act of aesthetic infatuation which he resolved emotionally, carried out with terrible difficulty, and eternally regretted, but never regarded as frivolous. At table R. told me he would be finished this month with the copying and wanted then to journey forth into the old land of romance. I say to him, “Once more you hover near me, forms and faces.” In the morning he also began his article on Devrient, and he read it aloud to me. After lunch played passages from Siegfried. He leaves me, saying that, now that I am with him, he knows what he has lived for, only I should not weep so much. I go with Loldi into the garden and reflect on what I have to do. I am not arrogant and am always astonished that he needs me, but I believe with all my heart what he once again said to me today at lunch: that if I went away, his life and living, his thinking and his thoughts would be at an end, and for that reason I myself no longer hold to the idea of a two-month separation. Yet I do not know how to set about getting the children to me here; no plan seems right. Much grief on that account. Upstairs, read Calderón’s El secreto a voces again, without being much absorbed by this masterpiece, because I am too worried. In the evening the delayed doughnuts with punch, and a reading of Albrecht Dürer’s letter on receiving the news that Luther had been arrested. Profound and painful religious feelings; how different such a character is from the sunny, life-loving, divine Italian masters! And the powerful, helpless language! Wonderfully moving! Certainly no such son has ever been born to any Latin nation. Yesterday R. told me he was stopped on the Reuss Bridge by a tympanist, who said he had been one of the musicians in R.’s concerts in Zurich in 1859. He declared that the whole Zurich orchestra was full of gratitude to R., since it had now been given what R. had previously demanded from the members of the Music Society, namely, a fixed salary and a permanent engagement. Thirty-two people are now engaged summer and winter. R. sent his best wishes to the gentlemen of the Comité with the message that they could have introduced the measure somewhat earlier.
February 11, 1869	269	A hangover, war rumors, and gray weather weigh on Richard and Cosima, though the children remain lively and Loldi's dreamed doughnut brings a comic note. Richard labors resentfully over the Devrient article while Cosima finishes Winckelmann and receives his teasing judgment that she has the vocation of a sister of mercy. A rainbow walk and discussion of Luther and Calderon's reversals of will lead into evening dictation.	Thursday, February 11: Hangover, rumors of war, and gray skies. The first oppresses R., the second clouds the newspaper, and the last troubles me. The children lively; Loldi, to whom I offer a doughnut, says she has already had one. On closer examination it turns out that she dreamed of a doughnut. R. is unwell, but he is continuing to work, if with ever-increasing repugnance, on the Devrient article. I spend the whole morning with the children and am able in the course of it to finish Winckelmann’s Life. Regarding my attitude toward the former, R. says I seem to have missed my vocation as a sister of mercy. He also thinks I am too good; but he should know that all the goodness he sees in me is only a reflection of his love. Our conversation about the Dürer picture brings us on to Luther. He would still like to find time to write that comedy with Luther as hero, and he says that in his thoughts he always literally lives with him; he feels related to him in many ways. In the afternoon a walk in the garden with R. and the children. The sun comes out, “more to listen than to shine,” and we see a beautiful rainbow. Talked a lot about Calderón. R. stresses particularly how in the plays, after the characters have literally spent all their passion, the moment arrives when they experience a sudden reversal of will, and a mood of complete resignation diverts them from their violent misdeeds, making them appear magnanimous and noble. Thus Flerida in El secreto a voces, and the King almost throughout. In the evening, dictation.
February 12, 1869	133	Springlike weather arrives too early, with a primrose already appearing, while Richard continues the Devrient article and Cosima divides herself between Winckelmann and the children. Reports of Milan success for the Tannhäuser overture, questions about where to publish, and Claire's plea for consideration fill the day. Calderon's comedy and Richard's amusing article reading close the evening, but Cosima falls ill with fever.	Friday, February 12: Settled springlike weather; a primrose has already appeared. That is indeed rather alarming. What will April and May be like? Richard is working on his Devrient article; I pass my time with Winckelmann and the children. The Italian newspapers report the success of the Tannhäuser Overture in Milan. At lunch our conversation scarcely moves from the Devrient book. Where to publish R.’s article? In the garden with the children, then a letter from Claire, advising me to be as considerate of everyone as possible! Read Calderón’s comedy Los enredos de la suerte. In these comedies, R. says, chance takes the place of Fate in the tragedies. In the evening R. reads me the continuation of his article, much amusement from it. But I am unwell and have soon to take to my bed with a temperature.
February 13, 1869	697	Richard's tender concern during Cosima's illness opens a day filled with memory, music, and strain. An elderly musician's submitted score moves them, Richard completes his Devrient article with crushing force, and a letter from the King is followed by Dufflipp's refusal of financial help on grounds that infuriate Cosima. Her speculation about intrigue provokes Richard's anger, leaving her to reflect painfully on duty, guilt toward Hans and the children, and fear for Hans's mind.	Saturday, February 13: R. tells me in the morning how, having found the window of his dressing room open, he had angrily exclaimed: “I shall never reach old age at this rate! Maybe I shall always remain young!” Whereupon Jakob: “Yes, you’ll always remain young.” At two in the morning, he says, he came to see how I was, and since I was sleeping peacefully, he went to bed content. Yesterday a score arrived which moved us very much. A 74-year-old musician, Claudius, who had earlier encouraged R. in 1845, has revised his work Der Gang nach dem Eisenhammer and now sends it to R. for his opinion. The handwriting is very quavery, but what R. played from it is really rather good. It has been 24 years since R. last saw this nice man. I took the opportunity of asking R. whether he felt as I did: to me my whole former life seems in some way literally incredible. He says all the people he once knew now seem to him like shadows, like phantoms; at most he was ashamed of certain relationships. My morning was given up again to Winckelmann and the children also. R. works on his essay, which he is concluding in an unexpected and magnificently crushing way. One can see here, as in other things, how much he takes everything to heart, and how he can never desist from giving a matter its full, horrifying significance, even when this is not discernible to anybody else. I am downright shocked when he reads it to me. After lunch he tells me he received a letter from the King in the morning, but had not read it at once or wanted even to mention it, since he wished to keep his morning free for work. Now he read it out loud: the same old style of enthusiasm and love. A letter from the King’s secretary Düfflipp was with it, and I started to read this aloud, suspecting nothing unpleasant. R. had asked for an advance, to be deducted regularly from his allowance, to settle some outstanding debts. Now he is told by Councilor D[üfflipp] that Semper’s claim, which has now been settled, and [Fröbel’s] article on Opera and Drama had aroused the King’s displeasure, and he would not listen to R.’s request. I told R. that Fr[öbel]’s article might perhaps have been commissioned expressly to arouse the King’s displeasure, so that he would not grant R. a favor, and the people there would have the amusement of observing his embarrassment. This upsets R. so much that he becomes quite angry with me. I should indeed have realized that this subject is an unpleasant one for R., and should not have discussed it. I was now alarmed at the consequences of my clumsiness, for I had meant no harm. The children, whom we had sent for, were apprehensive, and this upset me very much, for I try above all to avoid making the children suffer from the worries of their parents. R. walked off abruptly, and I went in silence, as I had remained throughout, to my room. The children help to distract me from my sad thoughts. When they are in bed, R. comes up complaining of great tiredness. Together we read a chapter of Winckelmann, then he mentions today’s incident and says I should regard all he said as having been spoken in a fever. I can only press his hand in silence; how could I ever take upon myself the right to forgive him? I stay up a long time and, restraining my tears with an effort, acknowledge that no suffering and no trial can absolve us from the fulfillment of our duty, and that my duty is to be good and kind toward R., whatever the hours may bring. I also reflect on the subject of deserts: without wishing it, I have nevertheless caused many people pain, I have wounded Hans, and my children are missing me. How, therefore, can I ever complain of my own sorrows? In bed a terrible thought strikes me: that Hans might finally go mad. In the morning I had read in the Signale that in Hanover he played nothing but Rubinstein compositions. That seems to me completely incomprehensible.
February 14, 1869	650	A bright Sunday finds Cosima melancholy but inwardly reconciled, saddened by Richard's bad sleep and by the lack of news from her children. Spring beauty, budding trees, and her camellias bring pleasure mixed with tears, since happiness seems inseparable from punishment for crossing life's boundaries. A drive toward Hergeschwyl, work on the Devrient essay, and a long meditation on genius, death, Weber, and Mendelssohn shape the day into reflection on how true spirits become more alive after death.	Sunday, February 14: Fine, bright Sunday. I wake up melancholy, but at peace with myself. Unfortunately R. reports that he slept badly, and that always pains me more than anything. I have begun with great interest a charming book which R. received yesterday from Fräulein von Meysenbug. Only it has been so long since I last received news of the children. That makes me sad. But spring is here. Yesterday it was windy and dull; today everything glistens, the birds are flitting about, trees budding, mountains, sky, and lake are transformed. It is very beautiful and one enjoys it; but it is too early. How many poor seeds will be sacrificed and birds driven away! I find one of my main joys in tending my camellias. A real relationship is developing between these two living things and me, and I would not wish to have many flowers around me. These buds have received quite a few tears today. That is of course foolish, for what is causing me suffering is only the consequence of my situation. Whoever steps beyond the boundaries must be prepared to be punished for it, however good his intentions, however difficult to achieve. Also, I ought to be glad when happiness deserts me; but mortals are weak and turn as avidly to pleasure as flowers to light. After lunch we drove out toward Hergiswyl, with Loldi. Time caught up with us, but the sunset was splendid, and the sickle of the rising moon slender and frail above Mount Pilatus. In the evening R. worked on his essay; I completed Fräulein von Meysenbug’s book. At lunch R. asked me to develop the thought I had expressed in relation to Weber and Mendelssohn. He had observed that, when he had Weber’s ashes moved to Dresden, only eighteen years had elapsed since the composer’s death, whereas it was now 22 years since Mendelssohn died. Yet at the time it had seemed to him an eternity since the tragic news was received, while now it seemed to him as if M.’s death had been reported only yesterday. I said that, apart from the difference which his own age might make to his feelings, it seemed to me that a genius such as Weber would very soon be imbued with the nimbus and halo of the past, whereas a personality such as Mendelssohn’s would be preserved in remembrance only because very many people who once knew him are still alive, and they keep the memory of him green. [Added later: “The sorrow that mankind feels at the loss of a genius also adds to the illusion. Every time it is called to mind it produces pain, and that is doubled and tripled by Time. The passing ‘What a shame’ that a loss like that of Mendelssohn evokes from us does not engrave on our minds the sense of his being dead, and we must then always ask ourselves when he did in fact die.”] Such a shadow does not grow, it can only disappear; the genius, however, is bound to become a legend immediately after his death. One can hardly believe that one knew him. The eternal worth of his work imprints itself also on the personality, so that it seems as if Life and Death have no real power over mortals such as Weber, Beethoven, and Mozart. It is as if they were of all time and had been with us only as the spirits they now are. With less gifted human beings life is everything, and they can only be forgotten; they cannot dominate the realm of shadows. As long as mortals who once knew them continue to live, their earthly presence remains fresh, whereas their spiritual essence fades. One remembers and talks of them without awe. In the case of true genius it is the other way around: the spirit becomes ever more alive, while the form in which it was clothed eventually takes on the appearance of a shadow.
February 15, 1869	224	Kos is taken to Zurich in illness, and a letter from the children reports trouble caused by Hans's mother, forcing Cosima and Richard again to confront the unresolved question of what to do. Richard's fear that her love for him demands too many sacrifices nearly overwhelms her, yet she resolves to remain brave and cheerful for his sake. She casts love as the saving divinity amid a rudderless sea and addresses her children with grief, fidelity, and a plea for remembrance.	Monday, February 15: Kos is being taken to Zurich; he is ill. I have a letter from the children; things are not going well there, Hans’s mother is making trouble. At breakfast I again discuss with R. what is to be done, but we could come to no conclusion. God give me strength, as He gave me the suffering! When R. told me yesterday that I could not possibly know how much he loved me, and when he today observed that he was too much for me and my love for him was loading me down with too many sacrifices, I thought that my heart would burst. One thing I can feel: that I must remain brave and cheerful, whatever comes, so that I do truly help him. A day of peace will then arrive, for me, too, and the children will bless me after that. Human intentions are pitiful; a puff of wind brings them to nought, and one finds oneself always in an open sea, rudderless, at the mercy of wind and waves, like Homer’s hero. Happy the person to whom in the somber whirlpools a helpful divinity mildly appears! Love is this divine and beneficent Leucothea. Your mother is grieving today, my children, but she remains true to you and to her love. When she is no more, think of her and pray for her rest.
February 16, 1869	587	Cosima reflects on an embarrassed late-night return to Richard's room, worries over the gravely ill Kos, and spends the day with Winckelmann and the children while Richard finishes his article and clarifies his refusal to support Rienzi in Paris. Their talk turns to art's superiority over nature, treasured books, and memories from two years earlier. The same CSV row then moves into Eva's birthday-like celebration, proofs of the Jewish article, flowers, fireworks, a brief alarm over Eva's health, memories of the couple's earlier shadowy closeness, and Coriolanus read aloud.	Tuesday, February 16: After I had said good night to R. yesterday I fell into long meditation, from which I emerged as in a dream, then went downstairs once more to wish him pleasant rest. But when I reached his room I felt very shocked by my lack of discretion; it was as if I had been walking in my sleep and had suddenly woken up. I then said my good night in great embarrassment. Vreneli, returning yesterday from Zurich, told us about Kos: he is very ill, God knows if he will get better. During the night I dreamed that he was very friendly toward the man in the institution and that the man rewarded him with kicks. I woke up with a start, sadly, to see a star twinkling down right through my window, and this gave me pleasure. R. has finished his article; he read it to me yesterday evening. The day belongs to Winckelmann and the children. Loldi very talkative, thinking of Boni and the pond in Munich, having fun with me in the bathhouse and giving me much pleasure. R. settles the matter of Rienzi in Paris by declaring that the only interest he has in the performance is in keeping it from taking place, which he can and must do. At table he expresses his pleasure in the furniture, the books, the pictures, the butterflies, and says we are after all more dependent on the spirit than on Nature. The beauties of art are superior to the beauties of Nature, since they express what Nature desires; they are more limited, certainly, but for that reason their will is expressed all the more energetically. I think with melancholy of our poor little Kos! In the evening R. tells me with great joy that he has discovered a complete edition of Die Horen, Vasari, and the atlas to Winckelmann’s works. We think a lot about the hours two years ago. Wednesday, February 17: Dreamed of Blandine. On waking I hear the strains of the “Prize Song,” the melody which brought Eva into the world and with which R. greeted my birthday in 1866. Then R. brings our beautiful child to my bedside; she shines and sparkles, our little Eva! Spring is blooming outside. I hear and see everything as in a dream and like a departed spirit. I feel as if for me every kind of personal life has ceased and I am present now only in him and the children. R. receives from his publishers the proofs of the Jewish article, which gladdens him, for he feared Weber had been intimidated. Presents for the children, meals with the children, much rejoicing. When we drink to Eva’s health she is out of her mind with delight, in spite of having nothing to drink herself. Then I say she must go to bed. R. much dismayed, says this strictness is the Catholic side of my nature and that when my pleasure is greatest, I am always ready to renounce it. He is always asking himself how he would fare if I also took charge of him! This made us laugh. In the afternoon a walk with the children; at dusk fireworks in the salon. But Evchen is made ill by them; she has a dizzy spell, and I am very much alarmed, but she recovers. In the evening R. and I speak of former times, when we always passed each other like shadows, hardly spoke, and yet were so strangely close to each other. Then he read [Shakespeare’s] Coriolanus to me in his unique way. R. gave me flowers.
February 18, 1869	172	After a bad night and weary letter writing, Cosima is overwhelmed when Richard plays the ending of Die Walküre. The music saturates the entire day, making ordinary duties feel dreamlike and drawing her back to faith in Richard's genius, mission, kindness, and love. Out of suffering and belief, she experiences a quiet, tender hope rather than any promise of success or rest.	Thursday, February 18: Such nice dreams about Jesuits and Princess Wittgenstein; a very bad night! Wrote letters, to Lovedou and Mathilde. Great weariness. After lunch R. plays from Die Walküre, the ending, and I am literally overcome. Dear God! This work! Its influence pervades my whole day. Everything else I have to do is done as if in a dream; all that lives within me is these sounds and these words. Whoever believes profoundly receives the reward for his faith in the form of delicious hope. As, today, I became so profoundly aware of how much I believe in R., in his mission in life, in his genius, in his kindness, in his love, there gradually arose in me out of my glowing emotions, unshakable though shadowed by unspeakable suffering, a gentle feeling, pale and tender as the new moon rising over a glowing sunset. It spoke, not of fortune or success, not of rest and joy, either. Undefined and silent, it swelled up from my most intense feelings as that fairest of rewards, sweet hope.
February 19, 1869	66	A calm, uneventful day is divided between Richard's score work and Cosima's care of the children. After lunch they read scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and she spends two hours in the garden with Loldi, whose invented doll stories show vivid imagination. The evening closes with the completion of Coriolanus.	Friday, February 19: Good, eventless day; R. with his score, I with the children. After lunch went through some scenes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with R. Played with Loldi in the garden for two hours. She has christened her two dolls Pikasoki and Pulvia; the former is naughty. She will “shoot her up into the sky,” all this in the form of a story. In the evening finished Coriolanus.
February 20, 1869	240	At dawn Cosima's longing for death turns into a longing for a mother who could understand her love, care for her children, and guide her through impossible choices. Richard receives an enthusiastic letter from Judith Mendes, greets Cosima with the Walküre Spring Song, and later reads Das Rheingold to her after Claire advises a return to Munich. Petrarch and Goethe lead her to see Richard as a necessary goading spirit against mediocrity and wretchedness.	Saturday, February 20: As, at first dawn, the burden of thoughts and worries, of sufferings borne and expected, brought me a deep longing for death, I suddenly came to realize how happy I would be now if only I had a mother! A mother who understood everything, who comprehended my love, recognized my maternal cares, and would be able to advise me; who would say, “Give me your children, I will look after them and make them happy.” And my longing died. If one day dire hours should come to you, my children, you will find me there at your side! I slept all morning. At lunch R. showed me a letter from Mme Judith Mendès, who this summer wrote a very remarkable series of articles about him in the French Presse. The letter, too, is very nice and full of buoyant enthusiasm. That pleases us. In the morning R. greets me from below with the strains of the “Spring Song” from Die Walküre. I crept into the dining room to listen unseen. Afternoon with the children; played the piano. Received a letter from Claire. She advises me to go to Munich. Much melancholy. R. reads Das Rheingold to me. During the day read some sonnets by Petrarch and found pleasure in a quotation from Goethe, “Whoever has good to do must be like a goading spirit,” which seems to me to be the right motto for R. He is the goading spirit for wretchedness and mediocrity.
February 21, 1869	141	News from Dr. Lang that Wagner's articles may appear in the Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung through bureaucratic help from Bismarck gives Richard a welcome publishing outlet. Cosima drafts, in Richard's name, a letter to Judith Mendes explaining why he will not attend Rienzi in Paris, and he approves it. A misty day, a garden walk together, and Richard's powerful reading of Julius Caesar leave Cosima deeply moved and physically unwell.	Sunday, February 21: R. talks of a letter from Dr. Lang. Through his position in the ministry he has been able, by going through the bureaucratic hierarchy, to secure from Count Bismarck a command that Wagner’s articles be published in the N.A. Zeitung. The article on the Devrient book will start things going. This is very pleasant news, for R. never before knew where he could place his things. In the morning I write a letter to Mme Mendès, in R.’s name, setting out his reasons for not going to see Rienzi in Paris. R. is satisfied with my letter. A gray day, everything wrapped in mist. R. does not go into town; we walk together in the garden. In the evening [Shakespeare’s] Julius Caesar. R. reads it out loud to me wonderfully; it moves me so much that I go to bed quite ill.
February 22, 1869	440	Cosima remains ill and burdened by thoughts of Kos, a fallen camellia bud, and her father's charge that passion will leave only conscience behind. She rejects that judgment, insisting that joining Richard was not selfish passion and that leaving him for her own peace would be a fatal betrayal. Julius Caesar's melancholy sense of doomed causes mirrors her conviction that Richard's undertakings face powers already arrayed against them.	Monday, February 22: News of Kos, of whom the whole household has dreamed; the others happily, I sadly, so at any rate the honor of the oracle is saved. I am still suffering; a bud of one of the camellias has fallen off. I am still unwell, and however much I make an effort to conceal it from myself, I have to give in. This morning I could pay only a little attention to the children. I am really feeling it now, that famous pale cast of thought! At times I feel as if I were literally turning pale beneath the swarm of cares which descends on me. In the afternoon, while R. was sleeping, I thought of the last letter from my father, in which he said to me, “Passion dies, but the pangs of conscience remain.” What a superficial judgment! As if my coming to R. had been an act of passion, and as if I could ever feel pangs of conscience on that account! How little my father knows me, after all! How willingly I would give up any sort of joy if I knew but one being to whom I could entrust R.’s isolated life! “To bear happiness is also a penance,” Bettina wrote boldly to Goethe; how I feel this now, as I burden myself with so many heavy thoughts! Poets and sages teach us renunciation, life, too, teaches us renunciation, and renunciation is what my own heart bids me; but I could not apply it with a clear conscience; it would be like delivering the death blow just for the sake of my own peace of mind. The daily contemplation lies heavily on my heart; but R. does not notice it. He is working hard and happily. My only sorrow is that he does not tell me about some things he writes and receives, for fear of upsetting me. On the contrary: I feel that all things become a game when they are shared. In the evening we finish Julius Caesar. Who could remain unmoved by this depiction of a melancholy which brings to nought the endeavors of great men? Brutus and Cassius feel that they are the last of the Romans, and this disconsolate feeling contains the seed of the death of their cause. It gives birth to madness; even before the battle has been lost, they believe themselves lost. This is more or less the feeling I have had concerning all R.’s undertakings. I know the world belongs to other powers. “O, that a man might know the end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, and then the end is known.”
February 23, 1869	192	Richard has Cosima copy Henri Franck's early essay on Tannhäuser and talks playfully of a Kasperl piece involving Wagner and Faust. The gift of the Siegfried manuscript fills her with indescribable joy, though Claire's letter briefly darkens Richard's mood. Garden time, paper sorting, letters, and a merry reading of Twelfth Night round out a day that moves from self-reproach to delight.	Tuesday, February 23: R. has got me to copy out H. Franck’s essay on Tannhäuser, written in ’45, about 12 days after the first performance. It is excellent, indeed probably the most significant thing that has yet been written about Tannhäuser. R. talks much about a Kasperl which he had in mind to write and compose. The main characters are Kasperl and Wagner, Faust in the background. During the night I thought it would perhaps be better and more salutary for both myself and others if I were a little cruel. I lack too much the power of causing trouble, and so I consume myself. Around noon R. brings me the manuscript of the two acts of Siegfried. Indescribable joy! As I thank him, he says, “Everything belongs to you, even before I do it.” But at lunch he is despondent, indeed ill-humored; I had given him Claire’s letter to read, and this had a bad effect on him. But he was soon cheerful again. After lunch with the children in the garden. In the evening R. writes letters and I arrange papers and fill in an address book. After tea, Twelfth Night. Very gay mood.
February 24, 1869	227	After rare deep sleep, Cosima takes comfort in Richard's belief that their star may yet bring a favorable outcome. He writes a long letter to the King while she inks the score, experiencing the notes as sacred signs under her hand. A telegram prompted by Richard's bad dream unsettles her, but his improvisation from Lohengrin into the Ring possesses her soul before Twelfth Night and further reflection on their situation close the day.	Wednesday, February 24: A good night, lovely deep sleep such as I have not known for a long time. Yesterday R. and I talked about how one sometimes felt the urge to confide in another person. Then he said he believed that things would still turn out favorably for us, we must have our star somewhere. For the rest one must just ponder and wait to see which form of suffering one had chosen for oneself. R. writes to the King, 16 pages, and I ink in two pages of the score; I see the notes as sacred runes which take on color beneath my hand. After lunch R. improvises. Then he tells me that a bad dream had impelled him during the night to send a telegram to Dr. Lang, telling him to make no use of the information he had given him. My alarm over this made R. regret having told me about it. After he has gone out I write him why I considered the information so important. His improvisation, he went on from the Lohengrin Prelude to motives from the Nibelungenring, casts a spell once more over my whole soul. My soul is like a budding flower which opens only to the rays of his music. In the evening the conclusion of Twelfth Night. In the evening long reflection concerning our situation and how we should deal with it.
February 25, 1869	248	Richard dreams of their marriage and a spacious home, while Cosima is disturbed that her own night had again turned toward death. Inking the score gives her joy, but Richard's suffering and the thought that separation from her would kill him make her feel the impossibility of leaving. Children, garden walking, dancing, prayer, and her ecstatic relation to the Lohengrin Prelude shape a day of fragile hope and dependence.	Thursday, February 25: Richard dreamed that we were married, I wandered in a white satin robe, as in Terburg, through our roomy, well-furnished house and showed him Eva in a corner. I am dismayed, in view of this, to have had thoughts of death again during the night. But I am in good spirits; continuing to ink in the score gives me great pleasure, to follow in his footsteps like this! In the afternoon, however, I learn that he is suffering, and he does not look well. So then I have to summon all my spiritual strength and comfort him. He does not go into town, we walk with the children in the garden. Then he gets the children to dance. God grant him a good night, this I now beseech on bended knees and feel that I could never bring myself to part from him. He said today he believes we shall still be happy, he feels that up till now he has really been pampered, for nothing he had so far experienced in life has ever touched a vital nerve. A parting from me, however, would spell his death. Oh, may he sleep gently! In the afternoon, while half asleep, I saw the children again and wept copiously. Today I told R. that I have never really heard his Lohengrin Prelude, for with the very first notes I have always been gripped by such an ecstasy that I do not hear this miracle like other music, but experience it like a vision.
February 26, 1869	236	Letters from the children and Frau Marenholtz bring contact from outside while Cosima inks the score, writes to Boni, and searches papers with Richard. The original row then moves into news that Berlin wants Die Meistersinger, letters from Hans and the King about Tannhäuser, hopes of gathering everyone at Tribschen, and Richter's possible Easter visit. Gibbon, Loldi's alarming palpitations, and Antony and Cleopatra add gifts, maternal fear, and literary unease to the combined entry.	Friday, February 26: Letters from the children and good, sympathetic Frau Marenholtz. While with the children, inked in the score; in the afternoon a walk by myself. In the evening with the children, and wrote to Boni. After tea searched for papers with R. Saturday, February 27: Letter from Eckert; they want to do Die Meistersinger in Berlin, and Herr von Hülsen acts as if he had never before negotiated with R. In the afternoon a letter from Hans about the performance of Tannhäuser in Munich, enclosing a letter from the King, who had not in fact attended the performance, but all the same writes full of enthusiasm. I with the children almost all day. R., happy about the letters, says he can still see us all reunited and assembled here, my father, Hans, etc. Would Heaven but grant it; I cannot believe it. Hans Richter announces a visit at Easter; perhaps I can arrange for the children to visit me with him. R. has given me Gibbon, in English, as a present. Richard thinks I must be Loldi’s daughter, owing to the liveliness of my feelings. This reminds me of the terrible shock I had yesterday when Loldi, after a mild scolding, had such violent palpitations and got into such a state of agitation, her face glowing, that I feared the worst and saw my child already dead! Read one act of Antony and Cleopatra with R.; strange feeling of discomfort.
February 28, 1869	132	Sunday belongs largely to the children, who eat with Cosima and Richard while newspapers and reviews gather around them. Richard's attempt to play Siegfried is disrupted by Loldi's restlessness, and his anger in front of the children distresses Cosima deeply. She turns to activity, amusement, and score work to steady the household, concluding that no lasting harm has been done.	Sunday, February 28: All sorts of newspapers and reviews. I write to Frau Marenholtz and spend my time with the children. It is Sunday, which belongs to them, and they also eat with us. Unfortunately R. decides after the meal to play something from Siegfried. Loldi became restless during it, R. got impatient; to prevent an explosion I took her up to my room and let Eva come, too. R. became very angry and unfortunately in the presence of the children, which distressed me deeply. Whether I could have avoided any of it I do not know. “Activity, which never wearies,” comes to my aid, I keep the children amused and ink in two pages. R. seems to take the whole thing very lightly, and so no harm has been done. Good night, my children.
No diary entries found.