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 June 1869 (29 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
June 1, 1869	138	Cosima calls the day terrible after Richard reveals Hans's desperate letter about being forced to conduct Tristan with unsuitable singers. Richard debates whether to go to Hans, while Cosima wants him to help and sees the situation as almost beyond fear of death. The day ends early and grievously, dominated by the moral and artistic crisis in Munich.	Tuesday, June 1: How shall I write down this terrible day? In the morning I worked with the children; it did in fact strike me that R. did not go to his Siegfried and seemed sad, but I did not ask him why. In the evening he told me he had the day before received a letter from Hans and was wrestling with himself over whether he should go to him. The King has commanded Tristan after all, with the two Vogls, a veritable disgrace! Now Hans has to conduct the rehearsals; this upsets his nerves, and he begs R. to help him secure his release. The letter is pitiable, and I wish he would go. R. feels nothing good can come of the meeting and is resisting. Very early evening; who, having lived through such hours, could still fear death?
June 2, 1869	187	On Saint Blandina's Day, Cosima struggles to conceal anguish while Richard writes Hans that he will come if desired but urges him to demand dismissal before surrendering Tristan to disgrace. The children play in the garden as she hides her deathly feelings, sleeps under Richard's watch, and attends lessons in a daze. Evening reading on Dante's arts cannot dispel the sadness they no longer name aloud.	Wednesday, June 2: Saint Blandina, previously a festival day for me! Loldi very restless in the night; I weeping and trying to get a grip on myself. R. writes to Hans that he has decided to visit him if Hans wishes it, and in the meantime expects from him only that, before surrendering the work to the disgrace of such a performance, he should demand his dismissal. The weather is nice, so I can let the children amuse themselves in the garden and keep my deathly feelings concealed from them. I lie down at last and go to sleep. R. comes to my room and guards my sleep; he reads his uncle's book and then at lunch tells me what he has read. Never before have I striven so hard to conceal my feelings. After lunch with the children to their piano lesson. With Countess B[assenheim] I can scarcely collect my thoughts. When I meet R., we no longer speak about what is alone in our minds. In the evening some reading: Ad[olph] Wagner on the three aspects of Dante's poetry: Inferno, sculpture; Purgatorio, painting; Paradiso, music. Sadly to bed.
June 3, 1869	485	Cosima writes to the King begging him to cancel Tristan, while Richard asks whether she will live or perish and says he would follow her. The entry shifts partly into Richard's hand, recording their garden talk, his reflections on moral self-sacrifice and artistic vocation, Wolfram's Parzival poem, and a later domestic crisis over rooms, the nurse, and embarrassment before the elder children. Misunderstanding and delayed frankness leave both of them deeply wounded by the end of the night.	Thursday, June 3: Rose sadly, too, and feeling unwell. Wrote to the King and begged him to cancel Tristan. R. comes to my bed and asks me whether I will live or perish; he would follow me, that I must surely know. I get up and pull myself together; God helps when the need is greatest, as the proverb says. Letters from Claire to me and Math[ilde] to R. [Continued from here in R. W.'s handwriting.] Oppressed feeling of weakness. R. tries in vain to occupy himself with his work. We sat in the garden while the children ate their meal there; R. had sent Loldi to fetch me. He complained about the constraints of his artistic calling, having, by obeying them, to leave his moral inclinations undeveloped: he could do nothing else, otherwise everything would turn out badly; to be a thoroughly moral person demanded complete self-sacrifice. I kept silent. Wretched lunch through Lulu's presence, but gradually a cheerful mood. Then garden again. R. reads out Wolfram's poem about the birth of Parzifal. Great beauty; much affected. Worked with Lulu. R. into town; after putting the children to bed, I go to meet him on his return. At supper I felt sick; I withdrew to the upper floor, to go to the nursemaid. R., who saw in the exertion this put on me a reproach against himself for having, through the renewed and so much delayed rearrangement of the household, put considerable obstacles in my way, lost his head completely and gave way to excessive expressions of his concern. He complained that I continually and, as it seemed to him, with many excuses persisted in ignoring his daily appeals and representations to take possession of the apartment which had at last been put in order for me again, and to make it comfortable for myself. He said this gave him sad feelings of uneasiness, which constantly assailed him and tormented him like the fear of death. I at last won enough control over his ravings to make him listen to me when I explained to him that the reason for my hesitation in moving down to the apartment designed for me was that the proximity of his bedroom to mine, though indeed previously agreed on between us, was embarrassing to me now that the elder children were there. Since this bedroom of his was, as had also already been agreed, in the vicinity of the impending confinement and was to be prepared for the required nurse, I had to admit that I should prefer not to move down until the time for this arrangement arrived. This explanation seemed to surprise R. greatly and to arouse real bitterness in him. He said I should have told him this frankly a long time ago, since in this respect he had been misled concerning my views and my wishes. He became very quiet but, I believe, no less distressed. We parted very sadly.
June 4, 1869	351	Richard rises early to move his bedroom again, and Cosima receives the pages he wrote in her diary with sorrow rather than comfort. She spends the day dazed, tending the children mechanically, avoiding discussion of the previous evening, and hoping Richard may regain strength for Siegfried. The original row then moves into the next day with Nietzsche's visit, further talk about hurt and annihilation, and the beginning of labor pains late at night.	Friday, June 4: Early. R. was up before 6 o'clock; orders that his bedroom should again be moved to the downstairs apartment. [At this point C. W.'s entries resumed.] When I come down R. hands me this book with the pages he has written in it. I should have preferred him not to have done so. I believe I was given the coup de grace yesterday, and life confronts me as an insoluble enigma to which I intend to give no further thought. I keep the children occupied, rather than concern myself with them, for inside me all is sadness. R. seems unwell; I avoid all reference to yesterday evening because I wish to say nothing about it. It appears to me like a judgment of God, and it must be borne. R. occupies himself with Beethoven and talks about his death, in his 57th year. He also says he has been overcome with a great longing to complete his Siegfried. May God give him the strength and spirits for it! I spend the whole day in a sort of daze, the only thing to arouse my repugnance being an enclosure from Dr. Lang, a Jewish pamphlet in which a letter from R. to Tausig is printed. I am not happy about this, but I suppose it does not really matter. To town with the children, returning by boat. Quiet, melancholy evening. Saturday, June 5: Splendid weather, summer heat. Prof. Nietzsche, the philologist, announces a visit; R. wishes to put him off, I feel it is better that he come. I have still not emerged from my dazed state; I hear everything like a very distant echo, and everything melts away as if in a fog. Long conversation with R.; he believes that I am capable of bearing grudges against him, whereas any harshness from him in fact simply annihilates me. [Continued from here in R. W.'s handwriting.] A bearable evening spent with Nietzsche. Said good night about 11. The labor pains begin. At midnight leave the children's bedroom upstairs and, in order not to awake anybody, carry my bedclothes myself in two journeys down to the lower bedroom.
June 6, 1869	747	Cosima goes to Richard in the night as labor begins, insisting that household arrangements continue calmly and that Nietzsche stay for lunch. Richard's account follows the painful delivery, his terrified waiting nearby, Vreneli's joyful announcement of a son, and the sunrise glow and Lucerne bells that make the birth feel solemn and providential. The parents name the strong boy Siegfried Richard, rejoice in his future role among the children, reward the household, and pass the day in exhaustion, hope, and shared tenderness.	Sunday, June 6: At 1 o'clock down to Richard to tell him and to insist that for the time being no fuss be made, that the arrangements for the day be adhered to, and that Nietzsche should stay for lunch with the children. R. throws his dressing gown over me and leads me upstairs to bed. The pains get more frequent; at 2 o'clock have Vreneli woken and the midwife sent for. Necessary steps to make the adjoining room ready for the new arrival; but the time adjudged to be not yet so near. I fear the weakness which previously delayed Eva's birth. R. at my bedside in great concern. The midwife arrives after 3, to wait in the adjoining room, since I do not wish to speak to anybody. Things appear to quiet down somewhat. R. decides to use this period to get a few hours' sleep in order to strengthen himself for the coming day. He goes downstairs and gets into bed, but is so tortured by restlessness that he gets dressed again and comes upstairs. He rushes in and finds me in the most raging pain, being tended by the midwife. I was startled to see him suddenly standing before me and imagined I was seeing a ghost; I turned away in horror, thus driving him from the room into the open salon next door. When he again hears my cries, he rushes in once more, since the midwife has left me alone for a moment. I gripped his arm as I writhed, but signified to him that he should not speak. The midwife returned; R. withdrew again to the neighboring room. There he remained ear-witness to the delivery and heard the cries of the laboring mother. As he hears Vreneli come in and then hears her exclaim in reply to some words from the midwife, "Oh, God in Heaven!," R. thinks something terrible has happened to me and hastens to the landing to find out from Vreneli as she comes rushing out. But she greets him with a joyful laugh: "A son has arrived!" Her previous exclamation had simply been one of surprise that so little was prepared. Now R. went back into the salon; from the unconscious mother he heard little more, yet on the other hand he could clearly distinguish the lusty yells of the baby boy. With feelings of sublime emotion he stared in front of him, was then surprised by an incredibly beautiful, fiery glow which started to blaze with a richness of color never before seen, first on the orange wallpaper beside the bedroom door. It was then reflected in the blue jewel box containing my portrait, so that this, covered by glass and set in a narrow gold frame, was transfigured in celestial splendor. The sun had just risen above the Rigi and was putting forth its first rays, proclaiming a glorious, sun-drenched day. R. dissolved into tears. Then to me, too, came from across the lake the sound of the early-morning Sunday bells ringing in Lucerne. He looked at the clock and noticed that his son had been born at 4 o'clock in the morning. Just before 6 o'clock R. was allowed in to see me; he told me of his solemn emotions. I was in a mood of cheerfulness and gladness: the gift which Fate had vouchsafed us through the birth of a son appeared to me to be one of immeasurably consoling value. R.'s son is the heir and future representative of the father for all his children; he will be the protector and guardian of his sisters. We were very happy. The boy is big and strong; they say he weighs two pounds more than other newborn boys. We discussed his name: Siegfried Richard. R. felt an urge to give evidence of his joy throughout the house; he had handsome gifts distributed to all the servants. From 9 o'clock onward, my hand in R.'s, I was granted my first strength-restoring sleep, even if short, lasting about 2 hours. At noon R. had to leave me in order to preside over the midday meal with his guest, Nietzsche, and the children. During this time I was given the attention necessary to my condition. At 4:30 R. was relieved of his onerous duties. While the children went for a trip on the lake, we spent the time together, quiet and full of hope. At 9 o'clock he left me so that I could get some rest and he himself recover from his exhaustion in sleep.
June 7, 1869	264	Cosima spends the day after Siegfried's birth in pain and weakness, comforted by Richard's constant presence at her bedside. Richard buys Jakob a watch in the baby's name, and the couple imagines a future bond between Jakob's son Wilhelm and Siegfried like Kurwenal's devotion to Tristan. The children visit, the younger ones tire her, and despite severe afterpains she faces the night consoled and confident.	Monday, June 7: Little sleep in the night, much pain; only in the morning some rest. At our first meeting in the morning I could nevertheless give R. reassuring news about my condition. Except for the times in which I had to submit directly to the attentions required by a woman in childbed, R. sat comfortingly at my bedside all day. But at noon he did drive into town to buy a fine watch for Jakob, in the name of his own son Wilhelm. I was satisfied with the purchase and gave the watch to Vreneli, who in her turn took it to her husband to wear. The gift was accepted with touching emotion. We discussed the relationship we should like to see between Siegfried and the son of our loyal house manager, who is about eight months older. R. said he wished he had at the time insisted on the boy's being named Kurwenal, for he wished that Wilhelm might one day behave toward Siegfried as Kurwenal to Tristan. There was much good cheer, and melancholy pride, in our talk. The children came to my bedside. The excitement of the younger ones soon exhausted me. On this day I suffered very much: the afterbirth pains were significantly greater than at Eva's birth. But I faced the night consoled and with confidence, even though extremely weak, and on the whole it passed so well that I did not call on the nurse even once. Since for the first time in her life she was able to sleep beside a mother in childbed undisturbed, she was very pleasantly surprised.
June 8, 1869	264	Cosima greets Richard cheerfully, though both are weakened by the thundery air, while their strong son delights them with his fists and well-shaped head. Hermine returns and is confirmed in loyal service, receiving Richard's promise of lifelong care if she remains faithful. Plans for a quiet Protestant christening begin, and the day ends mildly with Siegfried flourishing and Cosima glad to be alive.	Tuesday, June 8: In the morning I was able to greet R. happily and cheerfully. He, on the other hand, seemed somewhat unwell, for which the thundery atmosphere was mainly responsible, and it also made me very restless and weak throughout the day. Our son is well; R. laughs about his strong fists; his well-shaped head delights us both. We spoke a lot about the significant change he has brought about in our fate. Hermine had come back on the previous evening. The children were very content to have her with them again. Today R. went down to speak to her and found her, just as we desired, resolved to perform her duties loyally and perseveringly, in accordance with our trust in her. She, too, received a suitable present from R., who also assured her of his willingness to care for her throughout her life if she remained good and loyal. Much of what R. told me helped to put my mind at rest. But in general my condition remained very painful, and in particular my exhaustion and weakness were great. Toward evening R. was in town with the children for quite a while, making purchases. In regard to our son's christening, an attempt is being made to see whether the local Protestant priest thinks he can carry out the sacred task quietly here in the house without attracting the attention of the Catholic clergy. The day came to an end in a mood of mildness and harmony: Siegfried is flourishing, and his mother is glad to be alive. R. leaves me about 10 o'clock; I sleep. Letter from Villot.
June 9, 1869	96	After a good night, Richard finds Cosima sleeping and later recites newly completed verses to her. She moves from bed to chaise-longue, the children leave for the Selisberg with Hermine, and the couple discuss Claire, Cosima's mother, and Charnace. Too much time out of bed brings evening pain and Richard's concern.	Wednesday, June 9: A good night; Siegfried somewhat restless. R. inquires after 7 o'clock and finds me sleeping. Then he comes to me at about 8 o'clock and recites the verse which he has just completed to his satisfaction. Cheerful, harmonious day. From bed to the chaise-longue in the salon. R. has his meals upstairs. The children, except Eva, sent off to the Selisberg with Hermine; in the morning much together with them. They leave at 1. Many things discussed: news from Claire about Alama and Charnace; Pasdeloup. In the evening pains: too long out of bed. R.'s concern.
June 10, 1869	130	A painful, sleepless day leaves Cosima confined and anxious over dreams of the absent children and an unanswered telegram. Richard is unwell but reads Don Quixote, while letters, Jewish pamphlet reactions, a Berlin advance for Meistersinger, and discussions of the christening and Hans pass through the laborious day. A telegram confirming the children's safe arrival at the Selisberg and a warm bath for Richard bring late comfort.	Thursday, June 10: Slept little; severe pains. Obliged to lie constantly in an outstretched position. R. unwell and despondent, concerned at my indisposition. Anxious dreams of the absent children unsettle me. Telegram not answered. Anxious, concerned mood the whole day. Discussions about the christening; about Hans. In between R. reads Don Quixote, with very refreshing results. Letter from a Dresden Jew, “Ahasverus.” Declaration of the musician Altichul from Pest, a Jew, in the Neue Freie Presse; R.'s telegram: “Elfen Altschul.” Berlin advance, 100 fr. d'or, on Die Meistersinger. Laborious day. At last in the evening telegram from Selisberg: children arrived safely at the summit at 9 in the evening. Some comfort. After a warm bath in the evening R. also better. Hans discussed several times: earnestly, but without excitement. Much pain and tiredness.
June 11, 1869	143	Good rest improves both Cosima and Richard, and he hopes to return to composition while they weigh who should conduct Siegfried's christening. Their son's first garden outing, household discussions with Vreneli, and Richard's renewed work on Siegfried give the day a healthier rhythm. Letters from Hermine, Chaillou, and Flaxland temper comfort with financial caution, while Don Quixote and a tender good night close it.	Friday, June 11: Restored by a good night's rest, the first for a long time. R. better, too. He declares he wants to see if he can take up composition again. Christening discussed; question: whether local priest? Schure's father-in-law or R.'s nephew Clemens? Delay deemed expedient. Letter from a lady harpist! Improved condition: our son is to be taken for a walk in the garden for the first time. R. works on Siegfried again. I discuss household affairs in detail with Vreneli. Toward midday from bed to the salon, on the sofa. There ate with R. The boy taken out. Eva alone in the house. In the evening letters: from Hermine, concerning the children, comforting; Chaillou; Flaxland to R. Little prospect of financial gain from the Paris success, for the time being. Don Quixote splendid! Part of the afternoon and evening spent on it. Tender “good night.”
June 12, 1869	89	Cosima's recovery continues through fine weather, a dream of Richard in Milan, Eva's good recitation, and satisfaction with Siegfried's progress. Richard works toward finishing the sketches, while Cosima resumes letters and notes the completed garden swing. The evening brings Don Quixote and the return of Cosima's own diary voice.	Saturday, June 12: Recovery continues. Dreamed of R. in Milan, but on the coast, secretly helping a refugee and at the same time performing the C Minor Symphony. Rest, fine weather. Eva good, repeats everything well. Satisfaction with Siegfried's progress. R. at work: he intends to finish the sketches in a few days. Today up to “O kindischer Held.” I am already writing letters, to Hermine, etc. The swing in the garden is ready. Nothing of significance happens. In the evening Don Quixote. Parted at 10 o'clock. At this point C. W.'s entries resume.
June 13, 1869	548	Cosima resumes writing with wonder and gratitude for the birth of a son, praying that Siegfried may support his sisters and inherit his father's spirit. Richard works blissfully on music whose themes now join maternal and joyful motives, and he calls Cosima great while she sees only his reflected nature in herself. Their happiness, laughter over her mother's misunderstanding of the birthday quartet, sunset thanksgiving, and Don Quixote turn the day into a hymn of love.	Sunday, June 13: All hail the day which illumines us, hail to the sun which shines on us! How shall I, poorest of creatures, describe the feelings with which I again take this book in my hands? When the woman said to me, “Congratulations, it is a little boy,” I had to weep and laugh and pray. Preserve him, divinity which gave him to me, that he may be the support of his sisters, the heir of his adored father! Now that my happiness lies so sweetly within reach before my eyes, it seems to me ever more tremendous, more disembodied. I see it hovering, rising up high above all woes, and all I can do is to thank the universal spirit which proclaimed to us through this sign that it is kindly disposed toward us. The day is blazing gloriously. I did not sleep during the night, but all the same feel well. I reflected on a letter to be written to Hans, in which I shall describe my earlier, my present, and my future relationship with him; added in the margin: “if he will accept it!” May God reveal to me the right things to say in order to help him a little! R. is working, I hear it with bliss. When he comes up to me, he tells me how wonderfully it has turned out that his theme of joy, “ist mir alles,” fits in excellently as accompaniment to the motive “Heil der Mutter, die mich gebar,” so that this expression of joy can be heard sounding in the orchestra up to the point where Siegfried himself sings it. Tomorrow he will probably finish his sketch! As he comes up he wakes me, “the great Zenobia”; this name for me occurred to him while he was working. When I ask him why, he says I am great, truly great. But what is great about me can only be the reflection of his own nature. At lunch he says to me that he knows I concern myself with others only when I see them in distress and in need of me, but when I see he is glad, only then am I really happy. And so it is in fact. Regarded our Siegfried; when R. saw him alone, the child appeared to him as he will once be, reflective and earnest. Very moved, he tells me it was as if he had seen the eidolon of our precious boy. God preserve him for us! R. tells me that my mother heard about the Paris quartet at Tribschen and assumed that the King of Bavaria had arranged for it, so it was no wonder he had no money left: to engage Semper; he had enough on his hands with Wagner. We laugh heartily at this pitiful absurdity. “These poor people think of everything,” says R., “except that it was the enthusiasm of a loving woman which provided me with this pleasure.” Against a most wonderful sunset I am writing these lines, lying at the window. Could I but sing a hymn to the Godhead! R. sings it for me; my hymn is my love for him. My Siegfried, crowning glory of my life, may you show how much I have loved your father! Drank tea with R. To bed at 9. R. reads Don Quixote to me.
June 14, 1869	186	Richard identifies the early morning bird as Siegfried's herald, and later brings Cosima the completed sketches, saying their son is now truly born. A Chinese novel from Judith Mendes, bad weather, and a telegram that the children are well fill the day. Cosima is distressed by Richard's sadness that he may not live to see Siegfried's manhood and by his regret that they did not find one another sooner.	Monday, June 14: Fell asleep in the middle of Cardenio's adventure and did not wake up until six-thirty this morning. Saw our boy at once. I dreamed again of R. When he came to me, he said he now knew which little bird it was which, as I had told him, invariably started to twitter all by itself at three-thirty in the morning at the first sign of daybreak: it was Siegfried's bird, which had announced his arrival and now came to inquire after him. R. brought a Chinese novel, sent to him by Mme Mendes, “temoignage d'inexprimable admiration,” which I have now almost finished. At one o'clock he comes with his sketches in his hand, inscribed “properly delivered.” He says our son is now truly born. It is again divine, this act! The only thing that distresses me is when R. says he will not live to see our boy's manhood and laments that we did not discover each other fifteen years ago. The weather is nasty today, foehn atmosphere, and R. is affected by it. Telegram from Hermine, the children in good health; in the evening Don Quixote.
June 15, 1869	113	Richard's bad night and possible delay in working out the sketches worry Cosima, though Hermine reports the children well and Eva and Siegfried both flourish. A letter from Richter says Hans has demanded dismissal for ill health, prompting Cosima to write Hans at length in a final attempt at understanding. The day remains quiet and earnest with Richard, ending in Don Quixote and fatigue.	Tuesday, June 15: R. had a bad night, which distresses me very much; I also fear that he will not start working out his sketches in the near future. Letter from Hermine, the children well and enjoying themselves. Eva blossoming here and Siegfried developing. I dressed, but am still very weak. Letter from Richter with the news that Hans has demanded his dismissal on the grounds of ill health! R. already knew. I write at length to Hans in great concern. Final attempt at an understanding. With R. in quiet and earnest mood. Will I be granted the boon of seeing Hans at peace? In the evening Don Quixote; I fall asleep and am very weary.
June 16, 1869	745	Weak after a difficult night, Cosima is alarmed by a Munich maid's urgent inquiry about Hermine and imagines disasters before trying to master herself. Siegfried's presence leads her to reflect on upbringing as careful gardening, while Richard plays the whole third act, praises her moral rightness toward Hans, and imagines educating their son. The long day ranges through Munich memories, Viardot bitterness, Kos's decline, Don Quixote illustrations, the Catholic Council, weather omens, and Richard's decision to forgo a cure in order to finish the third act.	Wednesday, June 16: Feeling very worn out after a difficult night, I cannot yet bear much. Vreneli gives me a great shock by telling me of a letter from the maidservant in Munich, wanting urgently to know Hermine's present whereabouts. I imagined all sorts of terrible things and tried to get a grip on myself by assuming all these terrible things had already happened. R. came; before entering my room he put something to rights in the salon, causing me to remark jokingly that he must always fiddle about with things. The joke came near to upsetting him, and I made it only because the one single difference between R. and myself is that he takes pleasure in comfort and in pretty things, while I tend almost to prefer doing without to enjoying. I often think that one day I shall have to suffer complete deprivation in order to prove the value of this trait, which now sometimes causes trouble. Siegfried was brought in to us; how carefully I shall bring him up! Of course everything is ordained in the stars, and he is already what he will later become, yet his development can still be benefited by his upbringing. Whether he will grow into a rugged oak or a lean poplar, that is already laid down; but whether the tree will remain beautiful, will not be damaged by parasite growths or plagued by maggots, that is what care, upbringing, is for. I shall be the loyal gardener who understands and protects you, my little boy, my good boy. R. declares he will be a genius because he is my son, but all he himself wishes for is a man. Since I feel very weak I stay in bed. R. plays through the whole of his third act. How lovely that we now have this! R. is sad to see me looking so worn out, and says that I suffer too much. He says the path of conciliatory discussion I have initiated with Hans will bring me much suffering, but I was right to do it, or rather, I was Rightness itself. Then we discussed the completion of the library for Siegfried; he intends to learn Latin again with him. For the shaping of our happiness, he says, he would have no fears were it not for the existence of the things from which we are cutting ourselves off. Once more we went through all our sufferings in Munich. We, not even we, could have acted differently! Afterward read Eckermann-Goethe. R. went to the piano; a glance at the French songs of his youth, which he had copied out and presented to me at Christmas, filled him with great bitterness. He remembered how he was kept waiting outside the room in Mme Viardot's house and then had begged her to sing his “Attente,” which “with radiant eyes” she had refused to do. He had had too much to put up with; not a single man had he discovered. I asked him whether he had done better with women. “Yes,” he said, laughing, for he had me. Then he went to get ready for his walk. When he came up, he was weeping; inside him, he said, was nothing but praise and glory in connection with me, melancholy and bitterness in connection with everything else. Kos's condition is again causing us much worry; the poor dog's days are certainly numbered. R. says he would like to return to Mme Viardot her Dore edition of Don Quixote; the illustrations displease us more and more. From Cervantes's story the Frenchman has extracted nothing but caricature. R. feels that even Cornelius, for instance, would for all his awkwardness have understood it better. The German Catholics are now firmly resisting the Council. Probably it will once more fall to the Germans to save the honor of mankind. Neither the French nor the English will bother about it; they will either simply bow to it or ignore the whole thing. The weather is overcast, but in the evening becomes brighter. On Wednesdays the witches are said to have power over one. When it rained in the morning, I felt as if the good spirits were weeping with me. R. is giving up his intended cure in order to finish writing his third act. I feel he is right, for we have too many worries on our minds for him to be able to tend his health in peace and to good effect; and pleasure in one's work can also be beneficial.
June 17, 1869	316	Richard checks on Cosima in the night and finds her asleep, while news of Siegfried, Eva, and the Selisberg children suggests divine kindness despite worldly obstacles. Cosima goes downstairs and into the garden for the first time, but the christening proves difficult because the Protestant clergyman fears Catholic notice. Evening talk revisits the mystery of their alliance, its renunciations, and the belief that the universal spirit arranged Siegfried's birth through them.	Thursday, June 17: R. had fears about me during the night and came up at two o’clock; but I was sound asleep. Siegfried continues well and Eva, too; of the children on the Seelisberg I likewise have good news. The Godhead is treating me graciously and kindly; it is only the world which is inimical to me. Thus I cannot have Siegfried christened here; this would cause all sorts of difficulties, the Protestant clergyman told Vreneli when we sent her to ask. So we must consider in patience what to do. Today downstairs for the first time and in the garden, with R. to the pigeon house. Smiling reception everywhere! R. asked jokingly in the morning what more Siegfried had in store for him, now that he had already dislodged him from his bedroom... There are lovely flowers in my sitting room, I see nothing but good all around me, yet worry lodges in my heart; I hope, dear children all, that things will be easier for you than for your mother. Surely there will never again be such a poor, bereft being as Hans. He feels so miserable in my absence, and yet I could never make him happy, never even please him. In the evening we discussed, R. and I, the oddly mysterious nature of our alliance. How timid and at the same time rapturous our first approaches, how unpremeditated our first union, how constantly our unspoken thoughts were centered only on renunciation, and how circumstances and people forced us to recognize that our love alone was genuine and that we were utterly indispensable to each other! “The spirit of the universe desired me to have a son by you, and so it arranged things; we ourselves were forced to obey, without understanding why.” In the evening I feel very, very tired and worn out. Not even Don Quixote restores us in its usual way; the sentimental episodes are too conventional.
June 18, 1869	407	Restless at night, Cosima meditates by lamplight on sacrifice, worry, and the pain of being unable to help Hans. Eckermann's Goethe consoles her in bed, while Richard's reflections on servants, almsgiving, equality, saints, and Alberich turn a household incident into moral philosophy. Antigone, What Is German, letters from Lulu and Hermine, and Cosima's renewed resolve to make Richard's days pleasant fill a weak and troubled day.	Friday, June 18: In the night R. again comes up to me in concern; I was just ringing for a light to be brought, so agitated were my spirits. He gave me the lamp, and now I continued to meditate in its brightness. I know that only complete sacrifice can assure us peace. I shall never be without worry, for I shall always grieve for the person whom I could not help, or, rather, who could do so little to help himself. Were I to sacrifice only myself, even though it be to utterly no avail, how willingly should I do it, yet thus my thoughts spin on and on until in the morning I fell wearily asleep. Spent the morning in bed with the Eckermann Conversations, much edification from them. So great a being as G. remains an inexhaustible source of consolation. At lunch the ungrateful spite of a manservant produces a significant conversation. R. says one needs just as much Christian love to receive kindness as to show it; the subordinate asks himself: Why can I also not harbor these feelings, why can I not dispense alms? The unity of all Nature is expressed in the feelings of the poor person: I am a suffering mortal like you, we are equal. And this unconscious instinct for equality in turn creates the insuperable division. Only a saint, who does not dispense alms but turns himself into a poor person, a prisoner, can set this division aside. He says it was Alberich who made him profoundly aware of this mental condition. Today R. has been rereading his essay What Is German?, and is very pleased with it. But what a severe judgment on the young King rises from it! After lunch R. reads me some scenes from Antigone; that is the truly incomparable par excellence. But my head is very weak. It is as if I had not yet quite woken up out of a bad dream, and I fear it will remain like this my whole life through. When I yesterday, being very tired, gave in to my feelings, I reproached myself afterward severely: nothing, no suffering and no trial, must be allowed to make me forget my duty, which is to make R.’s days pleasant. I impressed this firmly on my mind during the night, and it must be my mainstay. In the evening letters from Lulu and Hermine. I write to both, also to Richter. In the evening I am very weak.
June 19, 1869	123	The doctor keeps Cosima in bed, and Richard stays near her reading Eckermann, whose conversations become a source of wisdom and solace. When Richard leaves, despondency returns and she questions whether striving for the impossible has made her wrong. A kind letter and book from Champfleury briefly cheer her, but tears remain her only active relief.	Saturday, June 19: I had to stay in bed today, the doctor told me. R. is with me most of the time and reads to me from Eckermann. When he is there I always feel good, but once he is gone I am overcome by despondency and weakness; all my acts seem questionable, I ask myself whether I have not been striving for the impossible and through that, because of that, have done the wrong thing. Tears are my only solace, since I cannot be active. The mail brings a nice letter from Champfleury with a book, Les Chats. I am very happy with the Goethe Conversations; in the weakest and most dismal hours communion with a great and wise man is an infinite solace.
June 20, 1869	179	Cosima learns that Hans has written and is deeply agitated by the letter, then becomes unwell again and returns to bed. The children come back from the Selisberg, lively and delighted by Siegfried, while Cosima's thoughts turn to the dreadful Tristan performance in Munich. Richard sees tragedy as something people resist because it cannot be repaired, and the day is marked by tears and reflections on poets, men, and women.	Sunday, June 20: Since I was worried that no reply had come from Hans, R. tells me that a letter arrived yesterday. He gives it to me, saying it is very fine. Deep, inexpressible agitation. Probably more because of that than because of getting up, I again feel unwell and have to take to my bed. In the evening the children back from the Seelisberg; they are well and lively. They take great delight in Siegfried, who is shown to them. In spirit now at this performance of Tristan in Munich, this dreadful one! At lunch R. and I smiled, to think that poor Tristan, this night flower full of grace, has always been treated like a poisonous toadstool. R. is of the opinion that nobody wants tragedy; situations and feelings that cannot be changed or made better are anathema to all. Many tears shed today. In connection with a saying by Goethe, R. declares that all poets seem to share the opinion that there is nothing at all for them in men, though they can make do with women in a pinch.
June 21, 1869	188	Still weak in bed, Cosima works with the children and sends a telegram about Hans's ability to conduct Tristan, receiving news that he revived during the performance and that the success was tremendous. Richard discusses Tristan as an earth-goddess cult requiring the richest musical means for a simple action. Children lunch at her bedside, Grimm and Eckermann fill the evening, and Cosima plans to propose going to Munich with the children to settle matters with Hans.	Monday, June 21: Still in bed and weak, but worked with the children. In the night I was very worried that Hans might not have been able to get through the Tristan performance, and sent a telegram to Richter. The reply reads, “Bülow came to life during performance, afterward cheerful, calls of ‘Bülow stay,’ success tremendous.” R. talks about the work and says that in it the cult of the earth goddess finds true expression; he feels as if he had thrown himself headlong into the paint pots and emerged dripping. He had had to make use of the richest resources of musical expression because the action of the drama is so simple. No one but a musician was in a position to explore such a subject to its very depths and remain at the same time attractive. The children have lunch at my bedside. In the evening read one of Grimm’s fairy tales, “Meister Pfriem,” to the little ones. Later Eckermann with R. Day and night I reflect on my reply to Hans; I intend to suggest that I come to Munich with the children and settle things with him there.
June 22, 1869	314	Cosima remains feeble but slightly better as Richard returns to his sketches and jokes about the five children as the Cinque Canti. His comments on women, passivity, and the two eldest children's resemblance lead into Hans's report on Tristan and a renewed interpretation of the King's instinctive role in preserving Wagner's works. Munich petitioners, Eckermann, and Grimm's fairy tales round out the day.	Tuesday, June 22: Still in bed and feeble, but feeling somewhat better. R. goes to work on his sketches. “All these primitive hotchpotches, Wotan storming in, I no longer care for at all,” he says. All five children with me, the Cinque Canti, R. calls them in fun. With regard to the two eldest, who show none of my characteristics, he says one can see to what extent Woman is like the earth in relation to the sun: she is entirely passive, and all that comes out is what Man puts in; except when Earth itself is stirred by emotions, by enthusiasm, when Tellus falls in love with Sol, then it, too, takes an active part. Orientals rightly regard Woman as the plowed field in which they scatter the seed. The image of Tellus and Sol provides a parable that can explain much, and one has it constantly before one’s eyes, since there is always day and night. In the afternoon a letter for R. from Hans arrives, a report on the Tristan performance. It induces R. to repeat what he said once before to me: “The King of B. is all daemon, I have been studying what he does, and he acts by instinct; when he stops to consider, he is lost. Without his even realizing it, his daemon tells him that, if he had gone along with me, had carried out my plans with real boldness, he and I would have gone completely to the dogs. In view of the wickedness and mediocrity of people he does whatever is possible to preserve my works for the world, but I cannot take much pleasure in his activities.” Some person was here again to request R.’s support in some unsavory Munich affair; Councilor Pfistermeister and Sauer, the adjutant, seem to think that only R. has any influence with the King! Still Eckermann, and with the children Grimm’s fairy tales.
June 23, 1869	173	Cosima tries to rise but must return to bed, and a feather on the coverlet leads Richard to read Lear's entrance with Cordelia, whose direct terror overwhelms them. Their talk turns to Shakespeare's Protestant directness, Gozzi, Italian acting, and the decline of drama into opera. A theater journal with a kind article about Hans arrives, but Cosima is too tired to write.	Wednesday, June 23: In bed! R. with his sketches; I get up, but soon have to lie down again. As I was playing with the feather on my bed, R. said, “King Lear,” and, since I could not remember the place, he fetched the play and read me the scene in which Lear comes in with his dead daughter in his arms. How terrible the effect of this one single scene! “When one recalls the conventionality of speech in certain Italian and Spanish poets, how startled one is by the directness here; one sees that Sh. must have been a Protestant.” Concerning Gozzi, R. said it struck him as very significant that he had started out from the well-known acting talent of the Italians. To what levels things in Italy had now fallen could be seen in the fact that drama is banished from all the big theaters and only opera flourishes. In the evening R. brings me a theater journal containing a nice article about Hans. I should like to write, but am too tired.
June 24, 1869	360	A nocturnal plan for Richard to read the Nibelungen in Munich and publicly explain their choices seems absurd by morning, though Richard says he once imagined something similar. He counsels planetary distance, Goethean calm, and letting events take their course, but becomes hurt when Cosima writes to Hans despite his need of her attention. Countess Bassenheim visits, and a Cornelius article on Genelli disgusts them as an example of grand references without true judgment.	Thursday, June 24: Woke in the night and thought out a plan by which R. would give a reading of his Nibelungen in Munich and afterward tell everyone what we were trying to do, why we went away, and how we had now been forced to abandon all our plans. In the morning, under the influence of Sol, I found this idea absurd. I told R. about it and he said he had also once considered it, but afterward the mere thought of to whom he would want to speak had frightened him off; such a thing might be possible in Paris, where it would make an impression and have some effect, but in no town in Germany would he find an audience for anything like that. All one could do was to shed light from afar like a planet and not try to intervene directly. Then he adds jokingly: when I am well again, he intends to enter his Goethe age; he has really made up his mind not to let things upset him any more. If only I would not let things affect me so! The greatest wisdom, and often the greatest humanity, is to let things take their course. Then he said, laughing, “It irritates you terribly that I cannot be happy without you; you want me to be cheerful and well, but you wish it could somehow be achieved without your help.” I had to laugh and to say, “Yes, certainly that is so.” He goes to his sketches, and I begin my letter to Hans. When he comes in to lunch R. notices my emotional state and reproaches me for having written. He says I should have desisted, out of love for him. When I offer the letter to him to look at, he says he does not wish to read it. In the evening R. brings along an article by Cornelius about Genelli, which disgusts us both very much; R. says he throws in Dante, Homer, the Bible, as if they were nothing, and nothing comes out of it but false judgments; to stick strictly to the subject, nobody does that any more. In the afternoon a visit from Countess Bassenheim.
June 25, 1869	526	A night of brooding leaves Cosima feeling that her test is not only self-sacrifice but the sacrifice of a greater life alongside her own. Richard carries her into the garden, where they discuss Lohengrin's march, trumpet calls, dramatic shock, and music's power to guide feeling. Letters about Walküre, the Berlin Academy, the King's role, Richard's declaration that Cosima is his idol, and Eckermann's praise of significant personalities fill a day that joins weakness, children, and aesthetic insight.	Friday, June 25: Still wretched nights, reflecting on my situation, my obligations; since personal sacrifice caused me no difficulty, it seems my life’s test consists in having to offer up another life besides my own at the same time, a superior one! I got out of bed and was carried by R. into the garden. Great weakness. We spoke about Lohengrin. He told me that in the year ’48 Röckel said to him, “What we now need is a sort of popular anthem.” “Well,” said R., “I have a theme,” and sang him the motive from the March in the third act of Lohengrin. Röckel found it too artificial, however. R. says he was right; one can tell that it comes from an artistic work. I told him then that I had first recognized the greatness of his art in this March and in the trumpet calls in the second act. When, utterly annihilated by the conclusion of the scene between Lohengrin and Elsa, I had come to believe that I could not possibly follow the further development, the trombone sounded, a somber, subterranean signal, so to speak, that he would give her an answer. Immediately following that, the bright trumpet calls, gripping my attention, and the art of music helped me over the shattering effect of the drama. In the same way, when in the second act Ortrud enters Elsa’s dwelling and Telramund declares that calamity is now entrenched in the house, the morning calls of the trumpets, with their natural sounds, at once provide the soothing effect which Nature always brings to a troubled mind. After all this, R. says that the Berlin Academy should have nominated me, for he has now been officially informed that he is a member of this somewhat superfluous institute. A letter to me from Marie Muchanoff demands Die Walküre for Dresden, where Count Platen, the manager, is deporting himself very well. I have to inform her that the Nibelungen belongs to the King of Bavaria, which brings us back to the subject of the King, and R. once again asserts that without the King he and his works would no longer exist. In the course of the day I have to return to bed, but all the same I spend a lot of time with the children. Another thing R. told me at lunch: “You are my idol, and it has certainly never happened before that a woman has so entirely fulfilled a man like me, has become virtually everything to him.” In the evening read Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann with ever-increasing pleasure. “All noble things seem to sleep until they are aroused by contradiction.” What particularly pleases R. is that Goethe always places the significant personality in the forefront and wins sympathy for the works through this, as, for example, with Molière. In contrast, says R., one sees how little one nowadays cares about outstanding individuals in the fact that so many books go out of print, e.g., Riemer’s Lexicon, Grimm’s German Grammar. The practical results of these books are brought together in others, and nobody cares whether he is hearing the words of an intelligent man or not. “All just railway-carriage reading!” says R.
June 26, 1869	405	Cosima resolves during another brooding night to hide her tormenting thoughts from Richard, and ordinary activity with the children helps quiet her mind. Richard reflects on Joan of Arc, works in the morning, and drafts a serious letter to the Berlin Academy that criticizes German conditions through his own position. Garden life, a letter to Marie Muchanoff, Richard's attack on Swiss imitation of Parisian luxury, and joyful tea with Eckermann close a day of fragile happiness shadowed by Hans.	Saturday, June 26: Night of brooding, going over things again and again; holding tight to one resolve: that R. should know nothing of my torturing thoughts. The only escape from tormenting, irrepressible worries is to have a firm purpose. With this I at last fell asleep. In the morning R. had breakfast with me and said that he had been thinking a lot yesterday about Joan of Arc, and what a pity it was that this subject, with all its sublime naïveté, was beyond the reach of art, since the world with which this heroine came into conflict is too despicable. I find it easier to get up today, and the day’s activities quell my restless thoughts. Worked with the children in the garden and also ate there. Much pleasure in the flourishing of the little ones; in them I am given the likeness of the greatest happiness. If I did not have the torment of Hans, whose lot could even be compared with mine? How, in blissful innocence, the days pass! No noise from the world reaches us, here love alone rules supreme. I thank the God who gave me this: may He forgive me for having brought suffering to another being! R. now always works in the mornings. In the afternoon he wrote his letter to the Berlin Academy: this, calm and serious, constitutes, in its outline of his position, the sharpest criticism of conditions in Germany. I remain in the garden and write to M. Muchanoff. The doctor came, and R. found an opportunity to remark to him what a great pity it is that Switzerland has no better aim in life than to imitate Paris; instead of having some capable person set up a technical college in Lucerne, they build one hotel after another, and the women run around made up absurdly to look like Parisians. On receiving the answer that such a little place would never be able to compete with Paris, R. replied forcefully: “It would be something different. What does it want with all this stupid luxury? It should act according to its needs, have its own character, but instead of that the rich gentlemen here prefer a nation of tricksters, just lying in wait for the three months in the year when they can fleece foreigners.” At seven o’clock I enter R.’s room, and he is quite beside himself with joy at my appearance. We drink tea downstairs, and upstairs continue reading Eckermann-Goethe.
June 27, 1869	599	A dream of Hans renews Cosima's resolve to remember and atone for the pain she has caused, while a florid letter from the King brings both amusement and unease. The day ranges through art, Austria, model performances, future theatrical plans, the King's wish to rule, and Siegfried's three-week milestone, which gives Richard fresh confidence in fate. Children, ices in town, and fatigue close a day where personal guilt and artistic ambition coexist.	Sunday, June 27: The usual night thoughts. I was awakened abruptly by the appearance of Hans in a dream. During the day I had read his letter again, since I am determined never to conceal from myself the evil I have done, however unwillingly, but on the contrary to impress it ever more strongly on my mind, in order to repent and atone for it as best I can. In the morning R. came up to my room with a letter from the King, addressed to Herr R. W., the immortal poet and composer, my great friend. "When I am feeling gay as I am today, I sing hymns to you, and yet I dreamed that you no longer loved me, and went away." I, too, had dreamed that I had gone away! I then read aloud the letter, which is very extravagant in tone. A conversation about the Doré illustrations, which are at least an expression of their times, something which can never be said of a similar German work, leads us on to the splendid van Dycks we saw in Genoa, then to two large copies made by Countess Nákó, which R. had seen in her home in Vienna. R. praised the Hungarian Countess's house, the Count's fine character and enthusiasm for R. [Unreadable sentence omitted.] "If I had been there in my G[oethe] age," he added with a smile, "I should have been happy enough to stay there, but, restless as I was in Vienna, always worrying about how to make do with the little I had and in consequence exacting, I could not let anything make a friendly impact on me. I should never wish to give up Austria," R. continued. "Through its Slav inhabitants it possesses the poetry of reality we so much lack in Germany." Then we considered what a different impression would have been created if we had presented the model productions of Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan und Isolde, and Die Meistersinger in Paris as in Munich, even in the German language; now everything has been more or less scattered to the winds. "When I have finished the Nibelungen," R. also said, "I shall write some plays for the theater: Luther's marriage with C[atherine] v[on] Bora, Bernhard von Weimar, that would have to be set in a military camp, and also Barbarossa." "And Parzival?" I asked. "That will be done in my 80th year. I shall perhaps do Die Sieger as a play." [In the margin, in R. W.'s handwriting: "And in addition publish a newspaper in which I should reveal all, all, speak my mind freely!"] "But no more music. With my ten scores I should think I have done enough. I am presumptuous enough to believe that, in regard to musical richness and invention, there is little that can be compared, as far as diligence and wealth of detail is concerned, with Tristan and Die Meistersinger." The King says he now wants to begin ruling! Siegfried is three weeks old today; he looks fine. R. says that since his birth, which for me was the reason for living my life, he has had an unbounded confidence in Fate. God bless you, my children; may you one day bless my peace, when my sufferings are at an end! R. had told the Academy of his willingness to supply them, if they should wish, with reports on the state of dramatic art in Germany. At my request R. struck out this sentence, saying, "You are right; anything that looks like a hope is stupid." The children to town with R., ate ices. I am tired and go to bed early.
June 28, 1869	235	A severe hemorrhage keeps Cosima in bed and alarms Richard, though he returns to work on Wotan and Erda while speculating on Tellus, Sol, philosophy, and religious symbolism. Goethe's verses, Sophocles's Ajax, Lusch's copying and piano, and Eckermann fill the day. Richard works reluctantly, saying he composes only for Cosima while despairing of hearing his works properly performed.	Monday, June 28: Wanted to get up early, but had another severe hemorrhage and had to remain in bed, to the great dismay of R., who, having risen in good spirits, soon found himself feeling miserable. Soon, however, he goes off to "Tellus and Sol" (Wotan and Erda). "If I had more of a philosophical bent," he says, "I should describe this prototype of all individualization; the separation of the planets from the sun is the beginning of all phenomena." I asked him whether he thought that much still remained to be discovered in the philosophical field after Schopenhauer. He replied, "To be described, much; to be discovered, I think not." Then he came to the conclusion that the symbols of Christianity offered less to the trained mind than those of the Indian religion, because the latter were the outcome of a very advanced culture, whereas the former originated in the poorest and most neglected classes. Lusch does some copying for the King. I read some of Goethe's occasional verses, "Lieben, leiden, lernen," and R. works, though reluctantly: "When I think that I shall never again hear a single note of my things, and that I am letting Das Rheingold be done without me, where should I find the urge to make music? I do it purely for you." In the afternoon I read Sophocles's Ajax: tremendous, morally uplifting impression. Gave Lusch her piano lesson. In the evening, Eckermann.
June 29, 1869	223	During a night of meditation, Cosima concludes that the grief inflicted on Hans cannot be excused or redeemed, only transformed into devotion to the children and Richard. Still weak, she is shocked when the doctor calls in an eye specialist for newborn Siegfried, who has a rare corneal inflammation. She receives the trial as punishment and asks whether even death could atone.	Tuesday, June 29: Long meditation during the night: the sin of having deeply grieved another being cannot be redeemed; no explanation, no excuses suffice for it, and so I have burdened my soul with a great sin. This I will expiate in whatever way I can; it shall work to the advantage of the children and of my beloved. My self-will is broken, broken, too, my self-respect. I recognize that we may not meddle in or resist our fate, but must just bear and bear things as they come. Just as the fairy tale tells us of little spirits standing by to aid the sorely tried, so do my children stand by me; to love them as they will never be loved again, this my woe teaches me, and the mother's soul is filled with gratitude toward her little ones. For all grief affecting ourselves there is a consolation, but for the grief we inflict on others we find no appeasement. Still weak; yet I get up. The doctor comes and finds it necessary to consult an eye specialist. A great shock, which is turned to worry by the eye specialist's visit. Siegfried has an inflammation of the cornea! The doctor has never before seen this in a newborn child. I feel this trial as a punishment. Profound sorrow: would my death bring atonement and salvation?
June 30, 1869	130	Cosima wakes into anxiety over the children and guilt after Hans's admission that he cannot do without her. She writes fully to Claire and learns that others, including Ollivier, are discussing her situation, then is carried downstairs while Richard works hard. Evening conversation about Schiller leads them into Don Carlos.	Wednesday, June 30: Hans does not write. At night I wake up and question myself. My realization of the dreadfulness of life keeps me in a state of anxiety about the children. I feel guilty ever since Hans told me that he could not do without me. This I did not believe! To keep from R. and the children all knowledge of my worries, that is my task. Wrote to Claire and told her everything; in this connection I came to read an earlier letter of hers, in which she writes that people and even Ollivier, my brother-in-law, are talking about my situation. In the afternoon I was carried downstairs. R. has been working hard. In the evening a conversation about Schiller brings us on to Don Carlos, which we are reading.
No diary entries found.