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 March 1869 (29 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
March 1, 1869	218	Snow and gray water return winter to Tribschen, but Richard works steadily and jokes that Cosima will deserve an order if he completes the Nibelungen. The previous day's anger is explained as the pain of having music made with and for her interrupted and misunderstood. Cosima recognizes the difficulty of combining child-rearing with artistic life, yet resolves to master it and face coming trials calmly if her children's hearts remain with her.	Monday, March 1: Snow flurries, “winter tempests”; yesterday Mount Pilatus dispatched a little avalanche, and today the whole country is covered with snow, the skies gray, the water a dirty green. Now winter is overtaking us. R., however, is busy on his work; may Heaven bless him! Richard says jokingly at lunch that, if he ever completes the Nibelungen, I shall deserve an order pour le mérite. After lunch the children again misbehave; it is difficult to combine bringing up children with an artistic life, but I am determined to succeed. R. also explains why he was so angry the day before: he had been making music for me, through me, and with me, the disturbance caused by the child had caught him at a most sensitive moment, and the fact that, in order not to disturb him, I had intended to detach myself from him together with the child had upset him completely, since it showed I had not understood how he was producing these tones in conjunction with me. At lunch he said he believed we would master our fate. I, on the other hand, am conscious of all sorts of trials ahead which I shall have to face, but I can await them calmly as long as my children’s hearts are with me. Spent the evening conversing with R.
March 2, 1869	420	Richard tells Cosima their conflicts arise from excessive love and dependence, then works on Wotan's awakening of the Wala while she divides herself between child-rearing and inking the score. A violent foehn strands market people near the lake, and piano duets bring the couple laughter and release. The Tempest, Antony and Cleopatra, Marbach's adaptation, and talk of Shakespeare's life carry the evening from moral awe to comic relief, before a tasteless letter from Mathilde intrudes.	Tuesday, March 2: At breakfast R. tells me that when anything came between us, it was because we loved each other too much and were too dependent on each other. His good fortune, he calls me! He goes off to work on the song with which Wotan wakes the Wala, I to the children; my life consists of bringing up and inking in, in German a play on words: Erziehen und Überziehen. A violent Föhn wind is raging outside. The market people cannot get across the lake to Lucerne, and wait with their wares in our boathouse; in the end they have to walk into town, carrying all their things, vegetables, poultry, eggs, on their backs. After lunch we play duets together on the piano, R. and I get much fun from it. R. says in his exhilaration, “What a lucky old donkey I am!,” which makes us laugh a lot. In the evening with the children I read Shakespeare’s The Tempest. A great and sublimely moral impression from it. The many horrible opera libretti had quite wiped the original poem from my mind; nymphs and specters were all that had remained in my memory. Now it seems to me so clear and so divine! I noticed particularly how uncommonly moderate Shakespeare remains in his use of expressions, as if the eccentricity of the situation and its framework had to be brought into balance by the simplicity of the speech, by which means the artlessness of natural life is also characterized. A less great writer would certainly have portrayed the love scene and Miranda with far more extravagance. Prospero’s burial of his staff, incredibly sublime. Later R. reads me the 3rd and 4th acts of Antony and Cleopatra. Well, who would dare to say a single word about that! I am utterly shattered. R. finds something of his Tristan reflected in it, inasmuch as it shows a being utterly consumed by love: in Tristan time renders it naive and pure, whereas here it appears in a ghastly, voluptuous setting, yet no less destructively. Unfortunately R. then brings out Marbach’s adaptation of the Shakespeare play. The tremendous agitation which the poet’s work had brought about now gives way to real merriment. The good man appears to have wanted to civilize Shakespeare! Inevitably we were led to discuss how Shakespeare’s life must have been: R. came back to his old precept that a poet cannot write about what he is currently experiencing, since he cannot see it clearly enough. From the post office R. brings a tasteless letter from Mathilde.
March 3, 1869	239	Music from Die Meistersinger returns Richard and Cosima to the period when Eva was in the womb, while Eva herself is startled by Richard's altered costume. Richard reproaches Cosima for staying away out of fear of disturbing him, and the day brightens with piano duets, snow, sunshine, and Viardot's gift of Don Quixote. Dictation resumes, and Richard frames love, genius, and sainthood as three forces through which the species continues, knows itself, and negates the world.	Wednesday, March 3: In the morning R. plays the duet from the second act of Die Meistersinger and says he can never play it without being transported back to the time when he wrote it and I was carrying Evchen in my womb. Evchen was afraid of R. because he is wearing a different costume. I go up to the children, R. works in my room. But at lunch he reproaches me for not coming to him and censures vehemently but lovingly my fear of disturbing him. After lunch we play the Faust Overture as a piano duet. Then, in a lovely snow landscape, he goes out. The rooms are full of brightness in spite of gray skies in the morning, and in the afternoon the sun even emerges. From his walk he brings home the splendid edition of Don Quixote which Mme Viardot has given him. Great joy, for his passion for books grows daily, which leads him to say jokingly that he is well aware that I do not approve of it any more than of any other form of passion. In the evening, dictation resumed. “Bid that welcome which comes to punish us, and we punish it seeming to bear it lightly.” “Let that be left which leaves itself.” Three elements serve the species, R. says: love, in which the species desires to exist; the genius, in which it recognizes itself; and the saint, in whom it destroys the world.
March 4, 1869	498	A sunlit snow landscape surrounds Richard's new sketches and his declaration that Cosima's love differs from tragic lovers because she can follow him even artistically. Their discussion of Shakespearean tragedy, artistic form, French unities, and the realism of Shakespeare's world deepens Cosima's sense that Richard instructs and uplifts her. Yet his thoughts on women leave her melancholy and unworthy in her own eyes, despite joy in the children and the evening's dictation.	Thursday, March 4: Still the snow landscape and sunshine with it, a calm and happy sight. R. working on his pencil sketches, I with the children; around noon I come downstairs and hear what he has just created! He says he wanted to write down a page for me in which he would have contrasted his love with the love of Eduard, Tristan, and Antony; in me he had found the woman who could follow him in all respects, even as an artist, and now his genius must step in for the misfortunes of the other lovers and lead us on to happiness! At lunch we again discussed the wonders and mysteries of Shakespearean tragedy: Cleopatra quite incomprehensible and yet so clear, so recognizable, so definite. It is that which distinguishes the true poet, R. says, the ability to depict everything as it is, without explanation or solution. The latter is provided by the philosopher, and everyone who reads such poems must be his own philosopher. While he is speaking to me, instructing and uplifting me, I am reminded of the verse at the conclusion of Tasso, though in an entirely different sense. I cling tight to the rock of his love, on which my “I,” that is to say, my bad side, my self-will, my sinful limitations, was wrecked. To live for him is my salvation, in recognizing that I am always thinking of my absent children and hoping soon to have them here with me. R. and I both had similar dreams: that we received visits and rejoiced in each other in a mood of harmonious well-being. Only in my dreams Blandine is always present. Beethoven’s grandnephew has come begging again. As we continue to talk about Shakespeare’s plays in increasing detail, he says he has often felt regret that in these works he could not enjoy each single ingredient for itself, for example, Henry IV by himself without interruption, and the young days of Prince Hal as a heroic comedy; this way would be artistically more consummate, though in a genius such as Shakespeare the very incompleteness serves to impart a true picture of the world. He feels that with regard to artistic form we owe much to the French for having held so rigidly to the three unities, but one should be able to move about freely within these rules and project life into the prescribed magic circle. Shakespeare had exploded the whole machinery, and what one sees in him is not the world in a magic mirror, but something so real that one is startled. Much else R. said to me about the nature of women. It makes me sad, deeply melancholy; we women cannot ponder these problems, we can only feel, love, yield ourselves. But how unworthy of R. I feel myself to be! In the evening, dictation, after the children had provided me with much enjoyment. Good night, little ones here and yonder, and big one! R. also reports that Rubinstein is to give a concert here. That is the last straw!
March 5, 1869	306	A dream of public scandal reflects Cosima's fears that her devotion to Richard will be misunderstood by family, aristocratic acquaintances, and posterity. Snow, the arrival of the Jewish pamphlet, and a letter from Hermine bring both solitude and renewed longing for the Munich children, especially the coughing Lusch. Catalogues, dictation, and discussion of a possible one-month visit from the children close a day centered on the need to be known by them.	Friday, March 5: Dreamed that my mother had published a pamphlet through Schuré in which she made some scandalous assertions: that I had been besought by the Grand Duchess of Weimar and Princess Wittgenstein to keep my hands off R. and not to carry on the ill repute of my mother. My own worries and thoughts are reflected back to me in this curious mirror! Rich. at his work; I with the children. At lunch he talks a lot about Wotan and the Wala. I tell him I believe that, if his friends knew how he was living and what satisfied him, instead of being pleased they would be angry and would despise me. He thinks that is not so, and that, as long as we demanded no active participation from them, we would find them sympathetic. I find that hard to believe. I do not even expect that in later years, when we are all peacefully at rest, my devotion and love will be remembered with goodwill, but my children at least shall know me. Snow is falling gently and copiously; it gives solitude a shining aspect. How quiet it is here! When have two beings ever before lived for and in each other, so cut off from the world? From the post office R. brings back the first copies of his pamphlet on the Jews and a letter from Hermine. The children are fairly well, though Lusch has a cough. I am overcome with melancholy. When shall I see them again, when have them again? While R. reads through the Jews, I look through the catalogue of Herr von zu Rhein’s collection with a slightly heavy heart. When I still belonged to the world, I took great interest in such things. Later, dictation, and then discussed with R. my plan to request that the children visit me for a month.
March 6, 1869	260	The children's health and playfulness delight the household, and good news that Kos may return at Easter adds to the morning's happiness. The mood is shattered when Eva faints and Richard returns depressed from a court dispute, disgusted by lawyers, evasions, and the justice system. Cosima sits anxiously by Eva's bed while distant laughter reminds her, without bitterness, that others can still be carefree amid her suffering.	Saturday, March 6: Great delight in the children, who are lively and healthy. Yesterday they were sitting opposite each other on the floor of R.’s bedroom and playing. Loldi was putting on R.’s shoe, and Eva brushing her hair with his big brush. R. says he cannot ever forget the sight. He has good news of Kos; we shall have him back probably at Easter. Wrote to Hermine. R. at work, but after lunch to the law courts in connection with a dispute with his locksmith. In the evening a great shock: Eva falls down in a faint. One should never rejoice; we had been too happy about the children’s good health. As I sat silent and in tears beside her little bed, forcing myself not to move so that the child would go off to sleep, I heard in little Wilhelm’s room opposite the sound of laughing, singing, and playing. In earlier days this contrast would have made me bitter, but now it gave me the consoling feeling that others at least were enjoying themselves while I was worrying myself to death. R. came back from the courts very depressed. He never wants to get involved in a court case again: nothing but tricks, lies, evasions. His lawyer was frightened to death when he opened his mouth, for fear he would smash down the whole tissue of lies. The opposing lawyer, a profiteer, a horribly prevaricating person; R.’s defending counsel a sheep, as was to be expected. Just think, says R., throughout the world the judicial system is like that! In the evening, dictation.
March 7, 1869	62	Richard remains disturbed by the court session but continues working, while Cosima spends Sunday with the children and finds relief in Eva's recovery. A walk with Richard and Loldi briefly steadies the day. Cosima's own health collapses into exhaustion, and Schopenhauer's ethics does not answer the anxious question of whether she will regain the children.	Sunday, March 7: R. still very much affected by the court session, but does some work. I with the children, who eat with us. After lunch a walk with Loldi and R. Eva is well again. I feel very unwell and have to lie down. R. reads me a chapter from Schopenhauer, “Ethics.” Shall I ever get the children? I am quite worn out.
March 8, 1869	121	Proof corrections for the Devrient article prevent Richard from working on his sketches and make the day dismal. Cosima inks the score in the nursery, worries over Eva's temper, returns to Winckelmann, and waits in suspense for news about seeing the children at Easter. A good letter from Dufflipp brings practical relief through an advance, security for Schott, and help for Beethoven's nephew.	Monday, March 8: Richard did not find time today for his sketches, since he had to correct the proofs of his article on Devrient; this meant a dismal day. In the morning and afternoon I ink in pages of the score in the nursery. Eva alarms me with her temper. After lunch R. sends off Die Meistersinger to the “Meistersängerin Mme Viardot” and writes letters. I occupy myself with Winckelmann again. In the evening R. reads me the conclusion of the chapter by Schopenhauer. I can scarcely describe my present mood; everything is just expectation. Shall I see the children at Easter? A good letter from Philipp; R.’s wishes are being fulfilled. [In the margin: “The advance granted, Schott given security, and Beethoven’s nephew helped.”]
March 9, 1869	145	Author's copies of the Jewish pamphlet and a gift gallery of famous Germans arrive while Richard works and the weather turns fine. Cosima walks with Loldi, whose bedtime declaration of affection reassures her, and Richard reads Love's Labour's Lost instead of dictating. His concern for Cosima's condition and her own nocturnal worry about the children's fate give the quiet day an anxious undertone.	Tuesday, March 9: Arrival of the author’s copies of the pamphlet on the Jews; also of the Gallery of Famous Germans, which Breitkopf & Härtel have presented to R. R. at his work. The weather is fine. After lunch a walk with Loldi; since she will never leave my side, I make her a little speech. In the evening, when going to bed, she says, “Everything pleases me about you,” meaning by that to assure me that she will do all I tell her. Since R. is still very much set against dictating, he reads me Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost. R. is very concerned for me, and I have to tell him how much worse other women in my condition frequently fare, in order to calm him down. In the night I wake up thinking of the children. Shall I be able to make their lot a little bearable?
March 10, 1869	278	Hans thanks Richard for the Jewish pamphlet and reports lucrative performances in Vienna, while the King commands Tristan and Rheingold for later in the year. Richard tells Cosima that daily conversation with her alone would make him fortunate, yet his work leaves him dangerously exhausted. A drive with Loldi, thoughts on family temperament, Shakespeare, and a midnight awakening fix Cosima's sense that her sole task is to ease Richard's life while trusting one child may one day help the others.	Wednesday, March 10: R. has received a letter from Hans, thanking him for the pamphlet on the Jews, sent to him directly by Weber, and announcing his journey to Vienna, where he is playing at Baron Sina’s for 500 florins. The King has commanded Tristan und Isolde for May and Rheingold for August. Hans is delighted with the pamphlet. R. is pleased by various things I say and declares that, if being able to converse daily with me were all he had, he would count himself lucky; he would ignore God knows whom, even Shakespeare himself if he came, just to converse with me. Winckelmann on the works of Bernini: “the common herd gone up in the world”; Poussin on Raphael: “An angel compared with the new, a donkey compared with the old.” At lunch R. is very exhausted; his work excites him so terribly that I am almost afraid to encourage him in it! Afterward a drive in the coach with Loldi to Hergiswyl. Rich. climbs on the rocks. In the coach he says that the peculiarities of my father’s temperament could achieve harmonious expression only in a woman. Back home, played with the children. In the evening finished Love’s Labour’s Lost. At ten o’clock to bed, and woke up suddenly in the night in concern about R. A deep awareness that I have but one task: to make his life easier. Whatever may come, whether I die or whether I live, nothing shall lead me astray. The children’s fate frightens me, since I shall one day leave them without provision, yet I hope for a friendly star for at least one of them, and this one will look after the others.
March 11, 1869	202	Kos's recovery brings joy, but Berlioz's death prompts Cosima and Richard to contemplate the year's terrible harvest of losses. Letters, Paris reports, Mathilde's account of Meistersinger in Mannheim, and the looming Vatican Council move through a day of spring air and despondency. Cosima frames suffering as the highest good and ends quietly because Richard is tired.	Thursday, March 11: Kos is cured and will soon return home, a great joy. R. works. Then he tells me that Berlioz has died; it brings back to my mind pictures of my childhood. R. and I discussed all the deaths in this year; the harvest has been terrible: Lamartine, Berryer, Genelli, Rossini, Berlioz, to name only the most renowned! R. goes for a walk and brings “my Richard Wagner letter,” printed in La Liberté. R. thinks it looks well and is glad that he decided as he did with regard to Paris. Pasdeloup writes that everything is going very well; he has completely new costumes after all and has engaged the top Paris ballerinas!! Also two letters from Mathilde to R. and to me, giving an account of Die Meistersinger in Mannheim! I am feeling rather despondent today in spite of the lovely spring air. Life is difficult, my children, oh so difficult! One must always remember that our highest good is suffering. In the newspaper there was an article about the approaching Vatican Council; they wish to make the papal pagoda omnipotent and give the Jesuits the triple crown. Their tomfoolery may be all to the good. Did nothing in the evening, because Richard is tired.
March 12, 1869	459	Cosima wakes in deep melancholy and tries to restrain thought as her heart feels stretched by accumulated troubles. Richard greets her with music inspired by imagining her with the children, while a recent encounter forces him to acknowledge publicly that she is at Tribschen. Bad weather, Winckelmann, childcare, Wagner's thoughts on music from Bach to Beethoven, doubts about his own composition, Edda readings, and the power of his voice fill the rest of the day.	Friday, March 12: In the night I woke with a start. No bad dream had troubled me, but I was so melancholy that it was a long time before I fell asleep again. I forced myself not to reflect, to think of nothing, however many troubles should come to roost in my heart; when it is too full, it will simply burst. And it is incredible how much the heart can hold. At times I can feel mine literally expanding to take in more. Early in the morning R. came up and played “Ein Engel stieg aus Himmelshöh’n” [“An angel descended from heavenly heights”]; he said he had seen me come into his room with the children, and this had come into his mind. My life as a recluse is now almost ended, since recently, as we drove out, we met Colonel Am Rhyn, and when R. saw him again yesterday he had to tell him that I was here; I was expecting the children for Easter and had come early because I should not have been able to travel easily later. However, this will not make much difference to my seclusion, for I am shy of seeing other people. R. worked long today and is terribly pent up on account of it. I avoid talking about it to him and divert the conversation to music in general. He says that up to Mozart music remained in a vegetable state, but with M. and particularly with Beethoven “anima” had entered into it. The Bachian fugue was like a great tree, so lofty and also imposing, yet in a completely different way from the human heart. The weather is bad and one cannot go out, a fact of which I am indeed glad. Winckelmann and the children fill in my time. R. is going through what he composed in the morning and is not satisfied with it; he thinks he has gone too far in the proliferation of his motives. At tea he said that, if he wanted to make things easy for himself, he would, from the moment Wotan says, “Seit mein Wunsch es will,” introduce recitative, which would certainly create a great effect, but would put an end to the work as art. Nobody has yet noticed with how much art he has employed all means to prevent the interruption of the flow of melody, while still achieving a romantic effect. Music, he says, transfigures everything; it never permits the hideousness of the bare word, however terrible the subject. Afterward he read me various songs from the Edda: “Sinfiotli,” “Harbard and Thor,” “Wafthrudnir,” etc. I take delight above all in the sight of his face as he sits there opposite me, when his eyes grow dark and gleam and his resonant voice shatters my heart.
March 13, 1869	415	A mocking press phrase and criticism of the Jewish pamphlet amuse and irritate Richard, while practical concerns lead the couple to decide on hiring an outside nurse. Cosima still lacks word on whether the children will come, and Richard reads Simrock's Germanic poetry in the evening. The original row then shifts to a beggar from the papal army, renewed snow, Richard's worry for Cosima, children's dancing, Lessing's Minna von Barnhelm, and her vow to bear suffering loyally for him.	Saturday, March 13: “The swan of Leipzig”: that is what the Signale today calls Rich. Much amused by it. A short notice in the Karlsruher Zeitung announces the publication of the pamphlet on the Jews and gives the opinion that by treating a whole race of people, including its eminent composer, ruthlessly, and also by treating all his opponents contemptuously, R. is harming both himself and his cause! Unfortunately R. cannot go to his work, because the piano tuner is coming; he is agitated. We discuss our situation and my condition and resolve to engage a nurse from outside. Seldom indeed have two human beings lived in such isolation as we. R. goes for a walk, but brings no letter back from town for me. I still do not know whether I shall see the children again! In the evening R. reads me “Ecken Ausfahrt,” translated by Simrock. Dietrich von Bern the true German type: calm and deliberate, utterly lacking in aggression, but terrible strength when once roused. The obituaries on Berlioz are all embarrassed in tone. Sunday, March 14: A poor soldier from the papal army came around begging yesterday; he had walked across the Gotthard and his right toe was frostbitten. He had good testimonials, and when on my instructions he was given five francs he wept with gratitude and joy. I was reminded then of the wish I had expressed as a child and still had as a girl to devote myself to the care of the poor. How far away from that I now am! And yet, when I see such misery, I have the feeling of having missed my vocation. Snow has once more settled over the countryside, le linceul, as we call it! R. is extremely worried about my condition; we go for a walk in the garden. Then we get the children to dance. In the evening R. looks at me and says: if only he had not brought me such distress; if he had never entered my life, I should now be sitting quietly in Berlin, reading Winckelmann in peace! At that I can only laugh, but when he afterward reads me Minna von Barnhelm I have, foolish as it may sound, to weep. I cannot hear certain emotions, as spoken by his voice, without my whole inner being’s trembling; and when I then contemplate him I have to acknowledge within my soul how unworthy of him I am, and swear to give him that loyalty which bears all suffering with rejoicing and without flinching.
March 15, 1869	353	After late reading leaves Richard ill, Pasdeloup's long visit over Rienzi becomes a test of endurance that makes Cosima suffer with him helplessly. Her successful Judith Mendes letter is praised, while an anonymous threatening letter from Breslau intensifies her sense of being dragged into public hatred. Anecdotes from Parisian performances mingle with her deepest wishes: to remain beside Richard, share his death, and find happiness only in his joy.	Monday, March 15: Our reading kept us up until half past twelve; now R. has had a bad night and feels very unwell. On top of that comes the news that Pasdeloup will be here today to question R. about some things concerning Lohengrin. Since R. declares he finds it less of a strain when I am there, I, too, shall see the good, muddled man. My letter to Judith Mendès was a distinct success; Truinet thinks it “parfaite” and Pasdeloup wants to bequeath it to his children as “titre d’honneur.” Received a letter from Hermine, but she has not yet received mine, since Hans was in Vienna. At three Pasdeloup came and stayed till ten in the evening. All through this R. was so miserable that my heart bled. He recovered, or rather, he exerted himself. God grant him a good night! To be prepared to die a thousand deaths for someone at every moment, yet to be unable to alleviate his suffering: what torture! The mail brought an anonymous letter from Breslau “in the name of 7,000 Jews,” full of abuse and threats. It reminds me that Count Bismarck’s assassin was a Jew. They will drag us down into the mud; I will bear it all willingly just to remain at his side. They may revile me to the end of time, so long as I have helped him, have been permitted to give him my hand and say to him: I will follow you to the death! Pasdeloup tells us that when, at his concert, some people hissed after the Lohengrin Prelude, a lady said to her neighbor, who was whistling ceaselessly into a key, “Monsieur, si vous ne cessez pas, je vais vous casser la tête avec mon petit banc” [“Sir, if you don’t stop, I will hit you over the head with my footstool”]. My single prayer: one day to die with Richard in the selfsame hour. My greatest pride: to have rejected everything in order to live for him. My finest happiness: his joy. Without him the world is to me no better than a sty, as Cleopatra says. My blessings now on his night!
March 16, 1869	140	Richard's good sleep feels to Cosima like reunion, and the morning turns to Mme Viardot's response to the Jewish pamphlet. Cosima drafts lines for Richard to send, writes to Loulou and Mathilde, walks with Loldi, and worries over a too-fine gold pen nib ordered from New York. The day is quiet but emotionally charged by fatigue, correspondence, and thoughts of the children.	Tuesday, March 16: R. slept well! At such times it is like a reunion after long separation. He brings upstairs with him a letter from Mme Viardot about the Jewish pamphlet! This nonsense, or this profound sense! She is a Jewess, that is now quite clear. When I tell R. I should like to write to her, he asks me to draft a few lines; these he finds good, and in fact, he copies them out. Then he goes to his work. I write to Loulou. A walk in the garden with Loldi; thought of the children! The evening is devoted to talk with R., since he is still too tired to undertake anything. Late in the evening wrote to Mathilde. I had ordered a gold pen for R. from New York, but the nib was too fine; that caused me a little worry.
March 17, 1869	134	A forwarded letter from the King fills Cosima with misery through its ecstatic tone, while another Viardot letter asks for musical explanation and seems to retreat from the previous day's response. She embroiders with the children, Richard sketches, and their lunch conversation dwells on loyal Loulou and the Munich children beneath the black cloud around her heart. Newspapers rage over the Jewish pamphlet, and evening dictation restores order.	Wednesday, March 17: R. brings a letter addressed to me from the King, which Hans has sent on to him. I cannot express the misery which fills me on reading these ecstatic phrases! R. has received another letter from Mme Viardot; she asks for a musical explanation. Strange! R. suspects that she regrets her letter of yesterday. While with the children I begin my embroidery. R. sketches. At lunch we talk about the children in Munich, particularly about Loulou, so good, so loyal. There is constantly this layer of black clouds around my heart. How easily I do without the world, or rather, how utterly I do not miss it, and how hard to bear, how anxious my longing for my children! Weber has sent newspapers about the Jewish pamphlet. Everyone foaming, raging, jeering. In the evening, dictation.
March 18, 1869	98	Richard is unwell and unable to work, while Vreneli goes to Zurich to bring Kos home. A friendly anonymous letter about the Jewish pamphlet and Richter's search for singers for Tristan, Rheingold, and Walküre show Wagner's public activity gathering force. Cosima, still without news of the children, asks Richard to write Hans and fills the spring day with embroidery, score work, and garden time.	Thursday, March 18: R. unwell, unable to work. Vreneli to Zurich to fetch Kos. A friendly anonymous letter about the Jewish pamphlet. Letter from Richter, who is starting on a journey to find singers, for Tristan und Isolde, Das Rheingold, and Die Walküre have all been commanded for this year! About the children, however, I learn nothing, and consequently ask R. to write a few lines to Hans, just so that he should not feel aggrieved at receiving no answer to various letters. Did a lot of embroidery and inking in, also much time in the garden; glorious spring day; Winterstürme wichen.
March 19, 1869	400	Kos returns changed, Richard works, and Cosima embroiders with the children while mail brings honors, press falsehoods, and new grievances over Semper's claims. Still without news of the children, she thinks back to Boni's birth six years earlier, recalling loneliness, neglect, and Richard's distant concern as the contrast that explains her later destiny. The memory is written not as accusation but as evidence of the emptiness from which Richard's love delivered her.	Friday, March 19: Kos is now really back, but very much changed. R. works, I sit with the children, embroidering. The mail brings only an honorary diploma from the Linzer Gesangsverein and the Signale for R. The latter contains a report maintaining that in a letter R. wrote that the French were tailors, and he would only go to them to have his jackets made. R. is demanding a retraction. Vreneli tells us that Semper had said in Zurich that it had been in Wagner’s power to have the theater built, but W. had let the project drop! Still no news of the children. R. tells me the people who are behaving so badly toward us will live to regret it. I do not desire even that. But I do want to see my children again. At this hour of the evening six years ago I was feeling very unwell; unwell and at the same time wretched. How wearily and gloomily I brought my baby into the world, without any assistance; how indifferently did the father greet it! Only Richard, far away, was concerned about me, and I did not know it. How dreary, how empty, how inwardly disturbed was my life at that time! How could I ever thank R. enough for what his love has done for me? At that time I was feeling so wretched that I told nobody that my labor pains had come, and that the baby was already there when they summoned the midwife. My mother-in-law was living in the house, Hans was at home, there were servants in plenty, and I was walking up and down in the salon all by myself, wriggling like a worm and whimpering; a cry I could not suppress woke the household and they carried me to my bed, where Boni then crept out. In every home a coming child is a time of joy, but I hardly dared tell Hans that I was pregnant, so unfriendly was his reaction, as if his comfort were being disturbed. I have never told anyone about this before; now I am writing it down, not to complain about Hans (he had many worries on his mind, and he did not know what pleases and what hurts a woman, for I had always kept silent), but because I cannot think without shuddering of that night in Berlin, which serves to make utterly clear to me the subsequent course of my destiny.
March 20, 1869	108	An abusive Breslau letter and an ugly drawing from the King arrive as snow renews the contest between winter and spring. Cosima worries over a troubling expression in Loldi's eyes and remains suspended without word about whether she will see the children. Evening dictation follows inspection of Odysseus's house plan, giving the day a scholarly close despite inner uncertainty.	Saturday, March 20: The mail brings nothing but an abusive letter from Breslau, the third from there, and a large drawing, Sachs and Eva, from the King. Unfortunately this is very ugly. R. does a little work; I am doing my embroidery and busying myself with the children, when I notice a peculiar expression in Loldi’s eyes which worries me; it seems like a touch of deceitfulness. Snow is falling again; spring and winter are locked in battle, likewise the evil and good spirits of my fate. I still do not know whether I shall see the children again! In the evening dictation, after we had inspected the plan of Odysseus’s house.
March 21, 1869	169	Still without news from the children, Cosima hears Richard reflect that their love could never have fit ordinary rules. Sunday passes through work, embroidery, play, Otfried Muller's Dorians, and a long sleep born of worry. A twilight bird briefly awakens hope before a rook silences it, while Richard writes to the King and jokes about wanting to lead her into a wilderness that no longer exists.	Sunday, March 21: Still nothing from the children! In the morning R. tells me he cannot imagine how we could once have thought we could contain our love within the rules of ordinary life. He works a bit, I embroider and play with the children. Then Sunday lunch. Afterward a chapter of Otfried Müller on the Dorians, then a long, long sleep, for I am tired from worrying. In the garden when already getting late; at about 6:30, after dusk had fallen and everything was very gray and silent, a little bird twittered above my head, and at once I was seized with hope; then a rook cawed, and I heard my little friend no more. Richard is writing to the King. Yesterday R. said, when he saw my hair undone, that it was true Genevieve hair, and he added: God, if I could lead you like that into the wilderness! Only there are no more wildernesses; everywhere boardinghouses, the wilder the country, the more luxurious the boardinghouse. In the evening continued reading Otfried Müller.
March 22, 1869	169	A Monday of mishaps begins when a chimneysweep disrupts Richard's early plans, and his letter to the King leaves Cosima melancholy about the form of his royal address. Hans sends a favorable Catholic article on the Jewish pamphlet, but the day remains gloomy with childcare, embroidery, and inking the score. At night Cosima ponders love, sexuality, and purity, concluding that no love could be deeper or truer than hers for Richard.	Monday, March 22: There are days devoted to misfortune, and it has happened often in my life that such a day is the first of the week. Today, for instance, R. wanted to rise very early in order to finish his letter and also get down to his work. But the chimneysweep upsets it all. Then he reads me his letter, and I am overcome by deep melancholy. I wish he could find another form for his intercourse; it could be just as warm in tone and might look more genuine. He notices my reservations, though I do not voice them. Hans has also written, and sends an article from a Catholic paper, in favor of the Jewish pamphlet. I divide the gloomy day between the children, embroidery, and inking in the score. During the night I found myself thinking melancholy thoughts about love: when the sexual emotions play no part, it is surely of a higher nature. Yet I cannot think that a love can be deeper, truer, purer than mine for Richard.
March 23, 1869	167	The first days of spring are dismal, and Cosima steels herself with the belief that suffering must be borne silently and courageously. Richard's account of friendly greetings from chained convicts leads him to reflect on legality, punishment, and public redress. The day is sparse but disciplined, with afternoon inking and evening dictation.	Tuesday, March 23: Dismal indeed these first two days of spring have been, and I myself in despondent mood. At daybreak I wake and tell myself that suffering is good and salutary and that we must suffer with cheerful courage, still and silent, and only then will we feel strengthened, as if the whole world were waving palm fronds at our patience. Then, too, and only then, the choirs of angels descend, bringing us comfort and singing their “Hail to the Weepers,” that fair cradle song of pain. The mortal being, however, takes up the cup reluctantly and prefers to lament, however much punishment he earns by it. R. told me he had encountered the convicts who are working in the fields and they had exchanged friendly greetings, one of them even with the words “Bonsoir, monsieur!” In spite of their chains, R. says, they are still members of society; whoever makes public redress for his crime is in a state of legality. In the evening, dictation. In the afternoon, inked in.
March 24, 1869	200	Cosima cannot stop her tears as the mail again brings no assurance that she will see the children at Easter. Richard plays powerful Siegfried music, but lunch is interrupted when Loldi becomes ill, apparently from drinking from a brandy flask, and the doctor also reports local interest in the Jewish pamphlet. Discussion of Cosima's position leaves her resigned that only the King publicly joins her and Richard, while the loss of the Easter visit must simply be borne.	Wednesday, March 24: Many tears in the morning. God knows, they flow so fast that I cannot hold them back; but I do as much as possible to conceal them. The mail still brings nothing; it looks as if I shall not see the children at Easter. At midday R. plays me some things, Wotan with Siegfried, powerfully gripping and moving! At lunch Loldi gives me a shock by suddenly becoming unwell. Fearing diphtheria, R. sends for the doctor, but it emerges with considerable certainty that she had drunk something out of the little brandy flask, and that has made her so ill. The doctor tells us in passing that he had read the Jewish pamphlet and he is glad to know the reason for the unceasing acts of enmity. A lady from Zurich had brought the pamphlet with her to read in the train. This amuses us. When R. comes home from his walk we discuss my position; he says that, generally speaking, we have only the King to place us together and reckon us as one. The children I shall not now see. That will just have to be borne. Perhaps a fair reward will blossom in my heart! In the evening read Otfried Müller.
March 25, 1869	435	On Maundy Thursday, Richard laments Cosima's care in his household before they make a cheerful outing to town with the children and find letters that leave the Easter visit undecided. The original row then moves into Good Friday letters, arrival of Devrient pamphlets and Schubert songs, and Cosima's church wish for the children's wellbeing, forgiveness, and mercy toward all involved in her pain. Sunshine, Schubert, news of agitation over the Jewish pamphlet, and Plato's Ion and Hippias make the evening solemn and beautiful.	Thursday, March 25: Maundy Thursday. In the morning R. laments bitterly that I am so badly looked after in his house; I am sorry that he takes so to heart something which has always seemed to me so trivial. He works a little, I embroider and play with the children. After lunch he suggests that I walk into town with him, and is pleasantly surprised when I agree. So to town with the two children, in gay mood. Stopped for a rest in a hotel, drank coffee and ate cakes, also glanced through newspapers. Then at the post office found a letter from Hermine. It is still undecided whether the children will come, Hans’s usual irresolution! Claire writes to me, too, and reports that my mother is again very unwell, a condition calling for profound pity. Passed the evening conversing with R. He is happy, because I have had a letter. Good Friday, March 26: Wrote to Hermine and to Claire. The former tells me, among other things, that Hans intends to give up the little apartment, so R. can send for his things. Around midday the sun comes out, which makes me very glad. My mood is quietly melancholy; how I should welcome the assurance that all are happy and well! Just before noon the pamphlets arrive, Herr Eduard Devrient and His Style, and the complete songs of Schubert. Then I go to church, if only in order not to offend those people who cannot understand that such a day is better spent silently at home. It was three o’clock when I entered the Barfüsser church with Loldi; at this hour, I was told as a child, one may make a wish and it will be granted. So I wished for happiness and good health for the children and all who have come in close touch with me, and for the forgiveness of all to whom I have brought pain; in my spirit I then pardoned all who have either done me harm or wished me harm or are preparing to do so. R. comes to fetch me and we return home together. Lovely sunshine, clear air, birds twittering in the branches. How firmly I am resolved to suppress everything, to bear every worry by myself and to seek salvation in every act of suffering and self-sacrifice! Thus I participate in this sacred day and hope for my dear ones. At home R. played and sang to me from the Schubert volumes. The Signale has not accepted his denial of the false report; on the other hand Dr. Lang writes that the Jewish population is seething in Berlin. Spent a wonderful evening with two of Plato’s dialogues, Ion and Hippias.
March 27, 1869	112	Richard's correction appears in the Signale, followed by a sentimental Jewish admirer whose protest against Judaism in Music renews discussion of the pamphlet. Cosima's strained eyes, Breslau attacks, Plato, and the children fill the day, and Richard is touched to find her showing the children Ring pictures. His happiness in their domestic scene becomes the day's emotional center before Hippias Minor in the evening.	Saturday, March 27: [In the margin: “Whoever desires the beautiful must endure much.”] In the morning R. brings a new issue of the Signale, containing his correction. Then a pamphlet by a sentimental Jew, an admirer of Rich.’s, but indignant about Judaism in Music. At lunch spoke about this and then once more mainly about Plato. My eyes are much strained, perhaps from the embroidery. Breslau sends us a fifth article! In the afternoon I take the children downstairs and show them pictures, Ring des Nibelungen. R. returns home, finds us together, and is pleased by the sight. He tells me I can have no idea how happy he is. Read in the evening, Hippias Minor.
March 28, 1869	370	Richard marvels that Cosima has spent a whole winter with him and names their love a truth amid worldly deception. Hans reports mounting reactions to the Jewish pamphlet, including Jewish hostility in Munich and pressure against Lohengrin in Breslau, while Cosima worries about intrigues against Hans. Egg-hunting, snow, Schubert songs, a letter to Meysenbug, and Richard's image of their happiness surrounded by wolves close the day.	Sunday, March 28: R., coming to my room in the morning, says, “You have now been with me a whole winter, I can hardly believe it; you know nothing of me, have no idea how my heart rejoices when I think of it.” Yes, our love is a thing of truth in this world of lies and deception. Yesterday we read together and were deeply moved by Shakespeare’s sonnet “’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,” in which all the bitterness of a being who feels himself at odds with the world is so nobly expressed. R. has a letter from Hans reporting on the impact of the pamphlet by Wilhelm Drach, and also further reactions to Judaism: the wealthy Jews in Munich are no longer so eager to see Wagner’s operas; the theater management in Breslau has asked Nachbaur to choose a role other than Lohengrin for his guest appearance, since this work cannot very well be played in Breslau just now on account of the pamphlet. Then Hans relates that he visited Lachner with a deputation from the orchestra, requesting Lachner to conduct his latest suite (!) himself, in the Odeon concert; that is to take place this evening, and in all probability Lachner’s supporters will stage the most ridiculous demonstrations. I do wish that these intrigues against Hans would stop at last. Was in the garden looking for eggs with the children; the morning was nice, but the afternoon brought snow. Richard was indisposed this morning and was unable to draw any “lines.” In the afternoon I read the French translation of Tristan und Isolde. Spent the evening going again through the Schubert songs; how much sifting one must do with Schubert before one attains a pure artistic enjoyment! In the night moonlight reflected in the snow; in the morning I heard the little finch singing, blackbirds came, too, to collect feathers from the hens, but now it will all stop, since more snow has been falling. R. writes to his friend Fräulein Meysenbug and mentions me kindly and lovingly. How that touches me! I can hardly say good night to him without tears starting in my eyes; he says we are as happy as lambs; if only there were not those wolves outside!
March 29, 1869	316	Cosima is startled by her aging appearance and tends to children with minor ailments while Richard works. A conversation about religious conversion and marriage exposes the different sacrifices expected of women and men, leaving her serious and unsettled. Colonel Am Rhyn's visit and an evening with Alcibiades II complete a day of inward adjustment to the asymmetry of love.	Monday, March 29: I am shocked at times by my appearance and ask myself if it is so bad on account of my condition, or because I am nearing my end, or just that I am getting older. I believe it is a sign of age. Loldchen has a bad eye and Evchen a swollen cheek, yet one is glad to survive the winter with nothing worse. Rich. at work, I play throughout the morning with Loldi, who cannot go into the garden. At midday there arose between R. and myself the question of a change of faith; he said, “Your father would certainly not object to our relationship if, to make it possible, I were to become a Catholic.” At that I asked him whether in order to marry me he would have become a Catholic, if that had been necessary. He replied that this was a “devilish” question, he could not even conceive of it. At first I was disconcerted; my immediate feeling was that I am giving everything up, religion and all else besides, in order to ally myself with him, but then I understood. A woman may and should sacrifice all for her beloved; a man, on the other hand, can and should have a point from which he neither shifts nor wavers. In addition, as R. observes, the conversion from Catholicism to Protestantism is not the same as the other way around; a Protestant is required to make a formal confession of heresy. This whole chapter did, however, bring me into a mood of seriousness; it is difficult to achieve all at once an insight which raises one above the painful realization of the difference between a man’s and a woman’s love; and since with me everything moves slowly, I spent just about the whole afternoon working on the matter. Colonel Am Rhyn visited me; that always produces a curious situation. In the evening began on Alcibiades II.
March 30, 1869	290	Heavy snow, weak eyes, and silence from Munich are offset by praise for the Jewish pamphlet and comic reports of accusations against Richard's motives. A walk into town brings a longed-for letter from Hermine promising that Cosima will see the children in a week. The joy is contained because Richard is unwell, and the day is seared by his near-miraculous rescue of Kos from an oncoming train.	Tuesday, March 30: Thick snow everywhere; it dazzles my eyes, which are very weak. Munich is still wrapped in silence. Instead, R. brings a letter from one of the editors of the monarchical Wiener Zeitung, Dr. Leutner: he speaks enthusiastically of the Jewish pamphlet; its “contemplative calm” and the “disregard for the comforts and trials of life” propounded in it fill him with admiration. An article in a newspaper, I do not know which one, calls R. the Hamann of the 19th century. R. tells me he recently read somewhere that he had written his Judaism because he envied Mendelssohn his genius and Meyerbeer his success; this made him ask himself: What, not Hiller his wife? For he could envy Hiller neither for his genius nor for his success. R. is rather unwell, but he is working, and that puts him in good spirits. The weather clears up and I walk with him into town; glorious sunset, the whole of Tribschen transformed on our return. Was with R. at the antiquarian’s, then at the post office found a letter from Hermine. In a week I shall see the children again! In the evening R. unwell, so I contain my joy inside myself. I had a terrible shock during our walk; not far from the railroad R. was reading out loud to me a letter from Pohl, “This letter resembles not exactly a bad apple, but at any rate a baked one,” said R.; suddenly we see Kos in the middle of the track fighting with another dog, the train almost on top of him! R. seemed to shoot off like an arrow, and through his running and shouting he rescues Kos, himself escaping only by a miracle; but the sight! In the evening finished reading Alcibiades.
March 31, 1869	121	Spring warmth lets Cosima embroider in the garden while the children dance and play, but plans to redecorate the rooms make her sad because her mind is fixed on the children. Richard reports that Siegfried is rushing through the flames, yet Loulou's formal letter and Mathilde's overwise one trouble the household. Plato's Lysis gives intense pleasure, while practical concern turns to finding a nurse.	Wednesday, March 31: [In the margin: “‘Goethe, so intent on beauty.’ Richard.”] A spring day. I can sit in the garden and embroider; the children full of fun, dancing in the living room, outside much jumping about and running. To me R. talks about the redecoration of the rooms; strangely, it makes me feel sad; also I can think of nothing but the children. R. works and says he is now well into it: his Siegfried is rushing through the flames. After lunch a letter from Loulou; its overformal French manner displeases R., and he tells me so, which makes me very melancholy. In the evening a letter from Mathilde, somewhat overwise. After tea read Plato’s Lysis with indescribable delight. Otherwise, worry over a children’s nurse.
No diary entries found.