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 January 1871 (30 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
January 1, 1871	330	The year opens with domestic tenderness, religious self-reproach, and playful naming within the Wagner household. Cosima notices the children's gifts and Richard's disciplined return to work, while visitors and private jokes give the day a theatrical warmth. Beneath the family scene, Munich theater politics intrude through Porges's appointment and Perfall's maneuvering, leaving the question of the King's role unresolved.	Sunday, January 1: Greeted R., the angel of my existence! And at the same time deep gratitude and a deep prayer of regret for all the good I have neglected to do and all the evil I have done. The children, all five, come with greetings. Loulou recites her English poem to me in a good accent and proves in this, too, her easy powers of comprehension, just as she yesterday delighted me with her lively attentiveness while listening to music. Boni also listened with devotion and cried when she had to leave. Family lunch; at about 4 o'clock Prof. N. takes his departure. R. has been ruling lines in his score, so this year will be nulla dies sine linea. Fidi starts the year with "Herr-mine," the word which to him expresses everything. As some visitors arrived R. was just fixing his large pin (Der Bauer als Millionar) in a bright-green tie; when he told me he felt a little embarrassed, I answered him that he need not worry: to strangers he would look only like an archivist, a sort of Lindhorst. R. laughs and the name sticks: he calls me the Orange Lily and Prof. Nietzsche becomes the student Anselmus. Yesterday morning, in great excitement, Richter brought us the news that Heinrich Porges has now really been appointed musical director in Munich. Since things were not going at all well in the theater, Baron Perfall played his favorite trick of proclaiming through the newspapers that it was all up with freedom in the Munich theater, since R. Wagner was having himself appointed manager. The object was to make Porges's appointment look like R.'s work, because Porges is known only as a supporter of Wagner, and at the same time to secure the permanent appointment of Herr Wullner, who is supposed to offset Porges, since it is known that the latter cannot conduct, or at least has never yet conducted. Things always remain exactly the same! But the King?
January 2, 1871	194	Richter's possible move to Pest casts a shadow over the household, turning professional opportunity into another reminder of material necessity. Cosima writes letters, observes Fidi's timid social visit, and ends the day with Hoffmann, whose satire recalls old grievances over Perfall receiving credit for Wagnerian reforms. Nietzsche's report of soldiers singing from Die Walkuere folds Wagner's music into the atmosphere of war and national feeling.	Monday, January 2: Richter has had a letter from his friend Servais, begging him in my father's name to go immediately to Pest, where plans to appoint him are progressing well; I advise Richter to approach my father directly for enlightenment. This notification saddens us further: "What a life this is, in which everything has to be sacrificed for bread!" R. says mournfully. He goes into town; I stay at home and write letters to Meysenbug, Krockow, and Serov. Fidi pays his first visit to Countess B., but her large figure dressed in mourning frightens him. In the evening finished reading Hoffmann's Klein Zaches without much enjoyment apart from the originality of the main character. We are reminded of how often Bulow used to exclaim with a smile, "Little Zaches, known as Zinnober," when, for example, the raising of the musicians' salaries, effected by us, brought our good Baron Perfall a serenade, and when the lowering of the orchestra pit, demanded by R., was praised in all the newspapers as a good idea of Perfall's. In Torgau, as Prof. Nietzsche tells us, the soldiers sing "Gottern, mir Knechte knete ich mir" from Die Walküre.
January 3, 1871	446	Richard's anxious dream leads to a tender reflection on the impossibility of separation between him and Cosima. The day moves through complaints about public silence, journalism, Cornelius's troubles, dead birds, cold weather, and German politics, all filtered through intense household intimacy. Wagner also weighs the future value of his biography and renews his admiration for Nietzsche's work.	Tuesday, January 3: R. appeared in my room during the night, asking me whether I loved him; a bad dream had frightened him. In the morning I joke with him about it, and he says that any separation between us had always caused havoc in him, as in his dream, making him firmly convinced that we had come to grief. And on the many occasions when we had decided to separate, never to see each other again, our hearts had downright laughed at the impossibility of this resolve. This, he says, is what has given him the confidence to let people say what they like, for "what do they know of our sufferings and our love?" He remarked yesterday that all our fine poets have got very quiet these days, giving us no more hurrahs at the very time we need a few words to give us new heart amid all the great sacrifices and sufferings. Talking about freedom as it is understood today, R. says, "Freedom is the divine right of journalists to do and say whatever they please." Long letter from Peter Cornelius, many complaints about his tribulations in the school and explanations of what he is and is not. "Everybody is prepared to admit that he has learned nothing, that he knows no Greek, but that he is not a genius, never." One of our two little finches has died, causing great sorrow; to insure that the cock will not be left in solitary sadness without a hen, I drive into town with Loulou. In the carriage Lusch converses earnestly with me, asks me when I think peace will come, and about the German emperor. An article by Herr Gervinus brings R. to the subject of conditions in Germany, and its good fortune in still possessing princes: "only these princes should form the Reichstag and, after having found out from assemblies of various corporations what the interests of their own lands are, they should represent those interests there; in that way they would learn to do something again, and the absurdity of the monarchic system would disappear." Letter to Prof. Nietzsche, who has been instrumental in getting our nephew Fritz Brockhaus called to Basel. My birthday dove, too, has now died! The cold is severe and we are short of coal. R. corrects his biography, and I tell him that with it we shall be bequeathing Fidi useful capital. R. replies, "If I can assume that my name will remain great in the history of art, then I also believe that the book will arouse interest." In the evening we once again discuss Prof. Nietzsche's thesis, and R. cannot praise it too highly.
January 4, 1871	237	A day of cold and quiet keeps the family close to the fire while Richard, unwell but reflective, contrasts their happiness with the harsh monotony of ordinary life. His talk ranges from the vocation of artists and saints to Goethe's vitality in Faust, Schiller's Apollonian character, and the Greeks as spiritual kin to the Germans. Cosima balances children's lessons, correspondence, and evening reading, recording a household turned inward by winter and thought.	Wednesday, January 4: Work with the children; R. is unfortunately not well, his nights are not good. Severe cold. We sit near the fire after lunch, and R. praises the stillness, saying: "It will seem strange when we come into contact with the outside world again. All we need ask of God is health, for we already have happiness." Speaking in general about the harshness of life, he says: "Everybody who is not an artist or a saint is a poor creature, indeed, a mere seven-day wonder. What life offers is always the same old thing over and over, a boring, monotonous affair, in which one can only discern differences of form." When I then quote Mephistopheles, "It drives one mad," he says: "Yes, that's what I call Goethe's Dionysian streak. Faust is one of the most wonderful things ever created by mankind; Faust and Mephisto are characters like Don Quixote and Sancho, except that they are brighter, which brings them much nearer in spirit to the Greeks, to whom the Germans alone are allied. Conceived in his flourishing youth, completed at the end of a long life, what a proof of vitality!" R. calls Fidi the blond Beethoven; he thinks he looks like him. Letter to Prof. N. R. writes to Peter Cornelius, urging him to hold out at the school. Compared to Goethe, R. calls Schiller Apollonian. In the evening I read Gibbon to R.
January 5, 1871	259	Richard's better night and early work are set against news that the bombardment of Paris has begun in earnest. A visit from Countess B. brings welcome news about the King's grant, and a snowy drive prompts memories of the Wagners' wedding and the sanctity Richard attaches to it. Richter's likely departure pains them deeply, while talk of Hoffmann and Nietzsche becomes another meditation on German artistic incompleteness and intellectual nourishment.	Thursday, January 5: R. had a good night and went to work early. I with the children. The bombardment of Paris has now begun in earnest. Family lunch; afterward a visit from Countess B., who tells us to our great delight that the King has granted their fief. We accompany her home; on the return journey I make with R. through the deserted snow-covered fields, we find pleasure in what R. calls our "insane" life. Will the children ever be able to visualize it? As we passed the Protestant church in the town, R. saluted it and said: "What a friendly wedding morn that was! One felt as if all one's cares were being smoothed away. All the people who took part in that ceremony are sacred to me." In the evening Richter brings back a letter from a Herr Danger in Pest, on behalf of the management, offering him the conductor's post there. Richter will have to accept it, but for us it will be difficult to let him go; we look on him, after all, as our eldest son! Talking again about E. T. A. Hoffmann, R. says he is always intrigued by the dilettantism in Germany, for to a certain extent all our greatest poets have been dilettantes, who produce sketches, in contrast to the Greeks, whose work always seems complete and assured. This leads us on to Prof. N.'s work, and R. says, "He is the only living person, apart from Constantin Frantz, who has provided me with something, a positive enrichment of my outlook."
January 6, 1871	170	Richter's summons from Cosima's father sharpens the tension between loyalty to Wagner and the demands of his own career. Domestic play, the uncertain fate of the birthday dove, and the children's staircase orchestra soften a day otherwise marked by Richard's melancholy over losing him. English interest in Wagner and a publisher's commission amuse Richard, while Klindworth's arrangement of Siegfried earns his approval.	Friday, January 6: At breakfast we are interrupted by Richter, who has received a telegram from my father, begging him to come at once. R. does not wish Richter to go before he has received a definite contract, and Richter conforms to this wish. I am fearful of any interference in the fate of another. R. is in despondent spirits in view of Richter's impending departure. The birthday dove is still alive! The children play at staircase music. Lulu conducts and they imitate the orchestra. An Englishman, Fitzgerald, introduces himself and believes the time is now ripe for making publicity for Wagner in England! He says the performances of The Flying Dutchman in London had made a deep impression. Another publisher also approaches Wagner with a commission for a musical work; R. laughs and says, "I see I was on the wrong track when I thought I could further my cause with literary work." Richter plays us passages from the second act of Siegfried. R. is satisfied with Klindworth's arrangement.
January 7, 1871	290	Cosima's feverish night brings another intimate declaration from Richard, who credits her with the life he now has. Fine foehn weather contrasts with his resignation over Richter and his striking indifference to public performances, which he finds exhausting and belated rather than sustaining. He locates his real creative pleasure in the moment penciled ideas become clear in ink, before music is pulled into the outer world.	Saturday, January 7: I had a sleepless, feverish night; R. came to me and told me that I had no idea what I meant to him, I had given him what he could not give me, I had made him the gift of his present life. The foehn has produced fine weather; the sun-drenched earth glistens beneath a clear sky. R. and I drive into town. At lunch R. notices that Richter is absent-minded and believes he wishes he were already in Pest. "I myself," says R., "am quite resigned, I am ready to give up everything at once. There is just one thing which must not be touched, but otherwise, if someone were to say to me, 'Here is a piece of property, here you may live with your wife and children, but you must never again listen to a note of your works,' I should accept the bargain at once. What do I get from performances except exertion and trouble, and just the satisfaction that nothing has gone wrong? But it leaves no impression." "My things give me pleasure only up to the first working out in ink, when the nebulous penciled ideas suddenly emerge clearly and distinctly before my eyes. Even the instrumentation belongs too much to the outside world. One just gets too wearied by it. This English offer yesterday, for instance, of course I ought to be pleased, for an Englishman will certainly do things seriously and precisely, but it leaves me indifferent. Am I to feel pleased because things I wrote twenty years ago are now being noticed, when I have gone far beyond them, taking one step forward and two back? I have been much too battered around for that." Letter to Klindworth.
January 8, 1871	290	Hans's birthday is observed warmly by the children and graciously by Richard, though Cosima's wounded feelings briefly disturb the household peace. The entry then folds in memories of Munich, correspondence, a magic lantern, lessons, a sleigh ride, and the possibility of Richard writing a coronation march. Reflections on Shakespeare, family bonds, and mortality leave the day suspended between celebration, regret, and prayerful vulnerability.	Sunday, January 8: Hans's birthday. The children celebrate it in high spirits; at lunch R. proposes his health: "Long live your good father, children, your mama's best and truest friend." After the departure of the children, when R. wanted to speak about Hans, I asked him to be silent, for my heart was sore; that offended him, and so I had committed a great injustice. Letter from my mother, who has persuaded herself that the French are worthy of admiration! Showed the children slides on the magic lantern. In the evening we talk of our memories, particularly the unbelievable happenings in Munich. I write a few lines to E. Ollivier. Monday, January 9: With the children; R. orchestrates. In the afternoon sleigh ride with the two little ones. Bureau de Musique Peters, thus the signature, writes: "I am still hoping for the composition of the coronation march." The day before yesterday R. said to me, "If worst comes to worst, I shall write the march." The Bureau declares that the King and Queen of Prussia love R.'s music. At lunch R. said a true demonstration of how utterly Shakespeare's characters are living persons, and just as incomprehensible, is given in Hamlet's monologue. "When one sets out consciously to write a monologue about suicide, something emerges like Cato's monologue in Addison; but Shakespeare's is as incomprehensible as Nature itself." I teach the continents to my "favorite daughter," as R. calls Loldi. Letter to Loulou from her grandmother, who says that Hans was very touched by the cup. I think of him a lot and hope so dearly that his children may one day give him pleasure, and I shy away from the thought of death. God help all us pitiful people!
January 10, 1871	160	War news from Paris appears encouraging to the Wagners, even as further fighting in the Vosges is expected. Richard's gift of a fine English Shakespeare edition and Countess B.'s request for help sit beside Cosima's fatigue and continued teaching of the children. Evening reading in Gibbon and Carlyle provokes laughter, thought, and a sharp contrast between German worth and Frederick the Great's French cultural blindness.	Tuesday, January 10: The news of the bombardment of Paris is good, and it seems the French themselves realize the hopelessness of their position. All the same a combined assault on the Vosges is being prepared. Arrival of the Shakespeare which R. is giving me, a beautiful English edition. Visit from Countess B., who asks me to write down for her a criticism of the obituary of her father, with which she is not satisfied. Great weariness, which I fight against in order to do German history with the children. In the evening read Gibbon with R.: his childish views on the "barbarian" Germans made us laugh heartily, but also gave us cause for thought. Before that we had been truly shattered by Gellert's conversation with Frederick II, which we read again in Carlyle. How noble, enlightened, and modest does the poet appear, and how tragic the great German King who, blinkered by French culture, cannot recognize his own people!
January 11, 1871	280	The day combines literary errands, political discussion, and Richard's orchestration work. Bismarck's Austrian alliance is welcomed as a major German act, while George Sand's printed letter provokes Richard into a forceful defense of Prussia as a people in arms rather than a philosophical abstraction. Later, technical talk about the horn's coloristic nature, jokes over the Joachim-Muehler affair, and reflections on Beethoven lead into another evening with Gibbon.	Wednesday, January 11: A young poet, Hartmann, sends us a printed account of his experiences with Herr v. Perfall! R. orchestrates. I write out the letter to Countess Bass, while the children are working. At lunch we discuss the alliance with Austria and welcome this as a great German political deed on Bismarck's part. R., who had read a printed letter from G. Sand, which my mother had sent to me, feels a great urge to reply to it: "Of the philosophers, the Protestants of Germany of whom you speak, we know nothing, for they are all infected by French culture; I know only of a king whose minister had made him understand that the insolence of the French could no longer be tolerated, and of an army which is the people in arms." I drive to Countess B.'s to deliver my little piece of work, with which she is satisfied. Letter from L. Bucher in Versailles. In the evening a technical discussion between R. and Richter, in which I am chiefly struck by what R. says about the horn: that it had recently, in the Idyll, sounded so indistinct to him, so blurred, which made him realize how carefully it had to be used, since it traced not the outline, but the color of a melody; that was also what made this instrument so romantic. The Joachim-Muhler affair makes us smile. "It just goes to show the irony of the present world situation," R. says, "the Jesuit Muhler vanquished by the Jew Joachim." Of Beethoven: "He was the first to hear once more the melody of the people and to introduce it in music." Ended the evening with Gibbon.
January 12, 1871	66	A day of reading moves from Gibbon's limited view of ancient Germans to Jakob Grimm's far richer imaginative world. Domestic sociability fills the afternoon, while Richard keeps working despite another cold. The household ends in familiar evening study, with intellectual pleasure set beside concern for his health.	Thursday, January 12: While yesterday laughing over Gibbon's childish description of the "barbarian" Germans, we find ourselves talking about J. Grimm's incomparable achievements, and R. read me a few pages from his Mythology, which does indeed open up to one an entire world. Family lunch, gay and companionable; afterward, visit from Countess B.; in the evening Gibbon. R. works, but unfortunately he has caught another cold.
January 13, 1871	137	Cosima's eye trouble forces practical caution, while a dispute over the borrowed sleigh is settled by hiring one elsewhere. The day mixes family errands, letters of admiration for Richard, and amusement over Gibbon's historical names. Richard remains absorbed in a passage of orchestration, judging its splendor against even the coronation march.	Friday, January 13: Since my eyes are very weak, I consult the eye specialist; I have to take care of my eyesight. A friendly New Year's greeting from Frau Wille; on the other hand, an unpleasant exchange with Colonel Am Rhyn about the sleigh. He objects to our use of it; we give in immediately and hire one from the town. With R. fetched Loulou from school. Richter has a letter from my father, sending greetings to "our great master." In the evening Gibbon; the field marshal Successianus gives us great delight, and I observe that it would be a good nickname for Fidi. Richard is very much occupied with one passage in his instrumentation; he says he could not endow even the coronation march with more splendor than this scene of recognition between Siegfried and Brunnhilde.
January 14, 1871	244	News from the war strengthens Cosima's confidence in the Germans and sharpens her contempt for French self-deception. Domestic disappointments and tender memories of the children alternate with royalties, odd requests, and playful private nicknames. The day closes with continued enjoyment of Gibbon and a sense of German character as both public cause and household theme.	Saturday, January 14: Victory of Prince Friedrich Karl at Le Mans; the French, on the other hand, are still reporting brilliant triumphs. I said to R. that the relationship between the Germans and the French reminded me of the relationship between an intelligent man and a foolish woman in an unhappy marriage. The latter always full of new fabrications, vexations, coquetries, etc., etc. Meanwhile our splendid Germans continue to make good progress, Heaven's blessings on them! Our string quartet should have arrived today, but canceled their visit, to the very great sorrow of the children. Yesterday Richard exclaimed to me: "The children in Augsburg, you sent them to me. Later you did not send them, but preferred to bring them yourself. What touching memories we have between us!" Today he said how his heart laughed to hear the children going up and down the stairs fiddling. Boni recites us a fable by Gellert and afterward R. says he feels like writing a history of the German character. Royalties from Berlin; Lohengrin maintains its position as Richard's most profitable opus, not opera. An unknown poet in Dresden asks R. to set his "Hymn to Peace" with tableaux to music! Nothing from Munich, nothing from the King. From Copenhagen, 1,000 francs for Die Meistersinger. R. says, "Today I am Successianus, only in my relations with you am I Verforianus," for he thought he had displeased me in something. Still reading Gibbon and still with great enjoyment.
January 15, 1871	160	The household devotes itself largely to children, music, letters, and small theatricals. Richter's arrangement of the staircase music and his sensitive accompaniment for Lusch delight both Cosima and Richard. Stories from the war and evening Gibbon give the day its wider frame, but its center is domestic performance and shared amusement.	Sunday, January 15: Games with the children all day. I reply to Frau Wille, who wrote to me yesterday and who had heard in Zurich about the morning music; I find it very difficult to touch on this theme, even to the best of mortals. Then a letter to my mother, still up in arms! Richter brings me his arrangement of the "staircase music"; it is excellently done. The three of us play it, Richter violin. At lunch R. tells us the story of a Prussian soldier, a tailor, who prepared a mitrailleuse and dummy and frightened the French with it. In the afternoon I perform theatricals with Lusch for the little ones, after Richter had utterly charmed us with an improvised accompaniment to Lully's Armenian Sonata; earnestly, discreetly, minutely he accompanied the child who, feeling important, sat and played with intense solemnity. R. said Richter had given us a consummate portrait of true chamber music. In the evening Gibbon.
January 16, 1871	567	Cosima's weak eyes restrict her ordinary occupations while Richard works and war news unsettles the household. Extended conversations range from Schroder-Devrient's dramatic power to the role of the orchestra, Parsifal, communion, Munich, singers, and artistic institutions. Practical irritations over the sleigh and stable are transformed into jokes about dialect words, while the evening returns to Gibbon.	Monday, January 16: My eyes are weak; I am not allowed to read, write, or sew. Richard orchestrates. In the newspapers it is still being reported that Siegfried is to be performed in Munich. God knows what will happen! News that Bourbaki has scored a success; he is said to have 150,000 men. That disturbs us. I cannot believe that our Germans are really fated to be defeated by these hordes, yet everything which serves to raise the hopes of the French has a damaging effect. At lunch R. talks again about Wilhelmine Schroder-Devrient and her performance as Romeo. "That really made me feel that everything hangs on the dramatic action; all the classicality, even quartets sound like so much squeaking, crumbled in my eyes at the sight of this human warmth. In fact the libretto is not at all badly done, and it had its effect on me when I decided to reduce Tristan to three love scenes." His intended work The Destiny of Opera is very much occupying R.'s thoughts, and many of his conversations now lead in this direction. The significance of the orchestra, its position as the ancient chorus, its huge advantage over the latter, which talks about the action in words, whereas the orchestra conveys to us the soul of this action, all this he explains to us in detail. Every utterance from him is doctrine to me. Richard Pohl sends us a biography of his wife; a quotation from Bach's chorale "Wenn ich einmal soll scheiden, so scheide nicht von mir" moves me very much by reminding me of the impression I once received from the music. I mention this to R., and he says, "On such feelings I have built up my whole Parzival." Then we come to the subject of the Last Supper and the profound significance of the community meal; whereas now the priest performs it, and subtlety has turned bread into wafers, etc. R.'s letter to Stade has appeared in Fritzsch's periodical. First drive out with Fidi, in the new sleigh; Herr Am Rhyn has taken his away from us, we hire another, and R. and I and Fidi go to fetch Loulou. Besides this, Jakob announces the arrival of Muni; this is the bull which is to keep Grane company, since Herr Am R. has also taken away his horses, and the stable is very cold. R. takes great pleasure in the word Muni; we look for it in the dictionary of Middle High German, but cannot find it; learn then from Hermine that in Wurttemberg dialect a bull is called Hagen. Hagen and Muni give us much joy. Of lyric tenors and heroic tenors, in the sense in which they are engaged and understood in present-day theaters, R. says: "The lyric tenor is one who has no voice, sings with his palate, and has a high falsetto. The heroic tenor is a certain fellow who has learned nothing." About Munich R. says: "How clumsily people set about criticizing me! They need only to mention my appointments, such as that of Cornelius, Porges, and above all the singing teacher Schmitt, to reduce me to silence, for what can I say to make people understand that such men can only be of use under my direction? What I ought to be pardoned for is having believed in the possibility of such a thing!" In the evening Gibbon.
January 17, 1871	127	A warm letter from Malwida prompts Richard to call their life a paradise they will later long for. Cosima, limited by her eyes, spends the day among the children as Richard orchestrates amid interruptions. Conversation turns from Homer to Fidi's expressions, and the calm routine closes with Gibbon's account of Diocletian.	Tuesday, January 17: Very nice letter from Malwida Meysenbug to R. "She knows we are happy," says R. "Oh, we are living here in Paradise! How we shall look back on it, long for it again, when once we have left it!" The subject of our conversation this morning: Homer, only possible before the invention of writing, and Fidi, who will lose his extremely lively facial expressions once he begins to talk! I have to kill time on account of my eyes. The day passes as usual in friendly harmony. I play with the children, Fidi the librarian rummages among his papa's books, and R. orchestrates. I tell him that he has certainly never in his life worked amid so many interruptions. In the evening Gibbon, Diocletian.
January 18, 1871	180	Letters and public affairs dominate a wintry day marked by concern over fighting near the border and the loss of their groom to military duty. Richard reflects critically on Ollivier and receives signs of growing enthusiasm from America and Leipzig. Despite painful eyes, Cosima shares icy errands, literary reading, and pleasure in Hoffmann with him.	Wednesday, January 18: Letter from E. Ollivier, who is living in isolation near Turin. R. says, "He is a good and intelligent person, but shares his country's insolence, which robbed him of his senses and forced him into war." Our groom, Friedrich, is being taken from us; he has to go as a soldier to the border, where fighting has been going on for the past two days, Werder and Bourbaki. Icy roads, but I go with Richter to meet Richard; he brings me a letter from the musical director Weitzmann, who reports that an American wants to translate the Beethoven essay into English and at the same time assures us that the whole younger generation is full of enthusiasm for R. From Leipzig R. receives an anonymous card of congratulation with the assurance that Leipzig is proud of R.; at the same time newspaper articles praising Die Meistersinger. R. says he undoubtedly owes this to his passage on Leipzig in the Jewish pamphlet. In the evening read Hoffmann's Die Konigsbraut with much enjoyment. My eyes are trying me sorely.
January 19, 1871	124	Snow returns, but the household is brightened by Fidi's first place at the family table and by games with the children. Nietzsche's letter brings admiring words about Beethoven, while Gibbon and Grimm remain points of evening reflection. Richard's declaration of respect leaves Cosima answering inwardly with gratitude for his love.	Thursday, January 19: Snow again, winter is starting anew. R. orchestrates, I with the children. Then family lunch, Fidi sitting at table for the first time, great joy and gaiety. After lunch games with the children and reading. R. is pleased to see me sitting among the six of them; Willi Stocker is also there. Letter from Prof. Nietzsche; he quotes some very fine words of his friend Rohde about Beethoven. In the evening Gibbon. Recalling his childish judgment on the Germans, R. says, "Yes, Jakob Grimm was a sort of mother figure." As we part, late in the evening, R. exclaims to me, "You are the only person for whom I have respect." Good heavens, and what would I be without his love?
January 20, 1871	267	News of Bourbaki's repulse and Bismarck's firmness restores confidence in the German cause. Cosima and Richard discuss Alsace, citizenship, class, and the hoped-for effects of empire, then turn to the emotional renewal brought by children. Richard links his happiness and public worth to Cosima's sacrifice, while errands, letters, and Gibbon fill out the day.	Friday, January 20: Bourbaki has been repulsed after all. Bismarck's reply to Count Chaudordy's note gave us great pleasure yesterday; one takes heart and feels confidence in the German cause when one sees such firmness. R. is glad that he has put an end to diplomatic hypocrisy. I told R. I thought the main reason why the Alsatians were so afraid of becoming Germans again was the class distinctions which exist in Germany, whereas in France there really was freedom for the citizens. R. says this is indeed a drawback, but he hopes that the advent of an emperor will change things completely. Seeing me today looking better, R. says: "You are my barometer. When you are well, I am happy. But when you are indisposed, I lose all my equilibrium." The children greet us: "What happiness it is to have the children! As the years pass by, one becomes dull and despondent, and what comes from outside one regards with increasing indifference; it is a sort of preparation for death. Then come the children, who are so full of lively impressions, in whom everything is alive, and they link us with the world again." He adds: "And all this you have done for me! Now at last the world must think there is something in me, since for me you abandoned everything and gave me everything!" Boni is now developing in a way which gives us pleasure. To town with R. to fetch Lusch. Over his beer in the evening R. talks about Fidi's birth. After supper read Gibbon. Wrote to Prof. Weitzmann and E. Ollivier.
January 21, 1871	113	War anxieties persist, but the day is otherwise marked by sunshine, play, and literary conversation. Richard gives Richter a vivid account of Goethe's Wanderjahre before the snow frustrates a walk. The children's obedience and Cosima's skill with them become the day's chief domestic satisfaction before evening reading.	Saturday, January 21: Chancy's army is reinforcing in Cherbourg. When will it all end? Sunshine inside and out, though I did in fact dream that, flying with R., I was seized by a wild bird, but I laughed about it. At lunch R. describes the plan of the Wanderjahre to Richter in a wonderful way, though he then adds, "However, all this is only fully depicted in Faust." We attempt to take a walk, but the snow tires us too much. In the evening Gibbon, after spending the afternoon playing with the children, during which R. admires my gift of keeping them in order and making them obey; Fidi is already willingly obedient.
January 22, 1871	466	Richard frames their happiness as almost divine before turning a morning of operatic reminiscence into a broad argument about drama, poetry, theater, and national character. His reflections on Prussian discipline, French theatricality, and Beethoven's historical place lead into an intimate quartet performance under his guidance. The music overwhelms household and servants alike, confirming for Cosima that certain works need private study while drama belongs before the people.	Sunday, January 22: "We are living like gods, and there's nothing more to be said," R. exclaims to me in the morning, and then sings a melody from La Straniera, which reminds us once more of the effect of such things. "Vivid portrayal with it, an interesting singer, and goodbye to all classicality. That is where the drama must come in. I am no poet, and I don't care at all if people reproach me for my choice of words; in my works the action is everything. To a certain extent it is a matter of indifference to me whether people understand my verses, since they will certainly understand my dramatic action." "Poets are nonentities compared to musicians, painters, and sculptors; it is only dramatists who can compete with them. The French people's great advantage is that they are playwrights, they derive the theater from their lives; it is a theater which resembles life. But it remains to be seen whether the Germans are capable of creating a theater which reflects the wildness of their nature." Regarding the outcry in the press, "I should like to forbid that abstract word and insist on people's saying 'journalists,'" against the bombardment of Paris, R. says: "Now at last I understand the Prussians and their stiff, buttoned-up character; it used to annoy me to see the King of Prussia in that uniform buttoned right up to the neck, even in his workroom. But now I can understand it; if it had been otherwise, we should be lost. Among the French there is too much slouching; our people are like inflexible machines." Talking about musicians and indiscriminate composing, he said yesterday: "Everybody should improvise; every good musician can produce something interesting in his improvisation. But writing it down is quite a different process. Then it has to be turned into a sonata, a suite, and so on, and it takes a lot to revitalize a familiar, defined form." "Beethoven was the first to write music which was listened to purely as music; all previous things were designed to enliven social gatherings or to accompany what was going on in the church or on the stage." Family lunch and later on the musicians; E-flat major quartet under R.'s direction, true bliss. In these tones one hears the lament of innocence over sin; if only one could transform the feelings they arouse into action, if only one could live according to them! The children happy, even the servants much moved; Hermine says she always finds herself looking at the portrait of Beethoven and wishing he could see how well Herr Wagner understands him. Only in intimate surroundings and through study are such things to be appreciated; symphonies, on the other hand, are written for the general public, and drama needs the people.
January 23, 1871	278	Political news from Bavaria and the war brings relief, but Cosima's eye pain and general illness make her pay for the previous day's pleasure. Richard continues to work and outlines plans for The Destiny of Opera and Götterdämmerung. Evening reading shifts from Gibbon to Schiller, whose theatrical vitality Richard praises with renewed enthusiasm.	Monday, January 23: The Bavarian Chambers have accepted the agreements, after all! Our magnificent troops have put the French to flight at all three points, but that does not worry these good people; it is still "to the death." I am very unwell, my eyes are becoming very weak and are painful, and even the great pleasure of yesterday was too much for me; I am having to pay for it today. R. is also not completely well, but he works all the same. He tells me he will embark soon on The Destiny of Opera and begin the second act of Götterdämmerung later, promises me, however, to compose the two acts without interruption. Wrote to Councilor Duflipp about costumes. Joy over our victories, which appear to be very great; vanished now is the fine European Court which was such a great humiliation for Germany. That is Bismarck's immortal achievement: Napoleon III, more cunning than any diplomat, was dependent on diplomacy; Bismarck realized that behind his wiliness there lay nothing. Gibbon in the evening. The name of Lady Milford causes an argument; I maintain she is called Johanna, R. Emilie. This leads us to read various scenes from the play. "I could read the whole thing again on the spot, from beginning to end, since the author does so arouse one's interest, just as every true word I hear about Beethoven, that he had been somewhere or other, seen this or that, grips me extraordinarily." "Yes, Schiller was a real playwright, he knew what he was doing. Kabale und Liebe will never die, for what roles it has: old Miller, Lady Milford, Luise, Ferdinand, Wurm, and so on."
January 24, 1871	158	Bismarck's refusal of safe conduct and German successes strengthen Cosima's patriotic excitement while provoking criticism abroad. A soldier's admiring letter to Richard links the war to hopes for a national drama, prompting Richard to think of sending Art and Politics to Countess Bismarck. Cosima is willing to sacrifice for him, yet recoils from any gesture that feels self-advertising.	Tuesday, January 24: Bismarck, Lt. General, refuses to give Jules Favre a safe-conduct to the conference; splendid! Everything reported about our people is great, and all the more does the world cry out against it. Taught the children the New Testament. After lunch sleigh ride with R.; at the post office we find a letter from a soldier in Blois. A sergeant named Rudolph Nolte writes to R. with touching enthusiasm and encloses letters from one of his friends, Koch, a student of philology, who is excited by the idea of a national drama. This reminds R. in the evening of his previously expressed wish that I send Countess Bismarck a copy of Art and Politics. I do not know why I find this so difficult to do, when I could so easily die for him. But thrusting myself forward in any way is something I find all but impossible. In the evening Gibbon. Letter from my mother.
January 25, 1871	373	Fear of smallpox, sleeplessness, and gray weather weigh on the household while Richard struggles with whether to publish a patriotic poem. He forbids a proposed Gewandhaus performance of the Ride of the Valkyries and later shares the poem he had hidden in embarrassment. The day turns toward Mozart, theatrical training, and Bayreuth as an imagined school for serious performance before ending with Gibbon.	Wednesday, January 25: We both had a bad night; mine was caused by the horrifying news which Jakob brought from town yesterday, that smallpox is reported to have broken out in Lucerne. May Heaven protect us! R. was unwell and worked on poems extolling the German troops; when he confided this to me, I encouraged him, but he replied: "Yes, but how? If I send it to the N.A.Z. without my name, it will receive hardly any attention at all. So should I sign it? With a name which any Jewboy can mock at as that of an opera composer one can't put oneself forward as a patriot." Next morning his ideas had vanished. General Moltke has granted Jules Favre his safe-conduct. The conductor Eckert sends a telegram from Berlin asking if he may send the "Ride of the Valkyries" to the Gewandhaus. R. replies: "Consider performance of 'Ride' an utter indiscretion, and use this opportunity finally to forbid any such thing." When I go into his room in the morning, I notice that he is disconcerted, and turn to leave; he calls me back and tells me he has just hidden the paper on which he had after all written down his poem to the German people; he had been ashamed to let me see it! At noon he reads it to me; I feel that it ought to be more extensive, and he intends to add another verse. Still snow and mist, no sun. We cannot go out. R. comes to the subject of the Queen of the Night's aria, and we laugh at the absurdity of regarding this as a jewel of characterization and classicality, when it is quite clearly a virtuoso aria for one particular singer. Richter teaches the children the role of Kilian. In the evening R. sings several things from Die Entfuhrung. We remark what a pity it is that such charming words get utterly lost in the ordinary opera house, since the audience has grown accustomed to art of much less refinement. Such things belong inside our school and must be dealt with like our quartets, then performed in front of an invited audience which has studied them. Bayreuth! To follow Mozart, Gibbon. Wrote to Bucher.
January 26, 1871	304	Reports of French disorder and Garibaldi's success mingle with Richard's completion of a poem for the German troops. Cosima advises sending it privately to Bismarck, which leads Richard into a sweeping meditation on genius, King Wilhelm, France's exhaustion, and the renewed German empire. A visit from Count B. and news of peace proposals close a day dominated by politics and historical speculation.	Thursday, January 26: R. reports that Trochu has resigned the high command, and nobody is prepared to take over the wartime government! So it will be dissolved. Garibaldi's success at Dijon has unfortunately been confirmed; as for the rest, it is still conquer or die! R. has added two verses to his poem. He reads it over family lunch, and, since I advise him not to have it published in a newspaper but rather to send it to Count Bismarck, he asks me to arrange this through Councilor Bucher. This brings the conversation to the people who have accomplished these deeds, and R. says: "There are individuals who stand above Fate and literally direct it themselves; these are the very rare geniuses like Frederick the Great. Then there are others who, though less talented, possess certain qualities which the Universal Spirit needs in order to achieve great things. Such a one is King Wilhelm, whose decency and trustworthiness are just what were required to bring about the downfall of the French." "Where viability still exists, Nature literally clings to us, brings forth wonders, but, when there are organic defects, she gives up entirely; that is why there are now no men left in France. I expect much from the new empire; it is wonderful that a form arising from the nature of things, like the imperial status of Germany, whose previous downfall was due to its mildness and not to its power, the tactics of all foreign countries having been directed solely toward thwarting the Emperor, it is wonderful that this should now rise up again, of its own accord, and should be recognized as legitimate, thus raising a barrier against the centralized state." Visit from Count B. Jules Favre has brought peace proposals, but they have not been accepted. In the evening Gibbon.
January 27, 1871	413	Richard begins the day by interpreting their union and Fidi's birth as nature's deeper purpose, giving meaning to past suffering. A letter on church music recalls the lost Munich plans and Richard's belief that their failure spared them a sterile public mission. Cosima sends his poem to Bucher for Bismarck, while peace negotiations, Swiss pro-French feeling, and Raimund's distinctive theatrical genius occupy the rest of the day.	Friday, January 27: "My dear good wife," R. exclaims to me early in the morning, "Nature wanted me to bring a son into the world, and you alone could bear me this son; anything else would have been nonsense and absurdity. This gave me the strength to accomplish and bear unimaginable things in order to get us united. That must be our comfort, for Nature's purpose goes far beyond all else." R. has had a letter from the cathedral conductor in Eichstatt who wrote the pamphlet on the conducting of church music. He deplores the present state of things and says that, while Bulow was still in Munich, he could still hope, but now humdrum routine prevails everywhere. We think, in this connection, of our plan to make my father responsible for church music in Munich. "Yes, we could have turned Bavaria into a musical paradise, but it was not to be! We should have sacrificed ourselves, in our exaltation we were willing to separate; and so, when the first blow fell, the banning of my articles on art and politics, I was in fact inwardly glad. If our cause had triumphed, we should have had to become saints, and Fidi would never have come into the world." "But since you came to join me I have had unlimited faith in myself, and want to live another 100 years with you." I send off his fine poem to L. Bucher for Bismarck; what will the latter think of it? Visit to Countess B., who calls Garibaldi the old hurdy-gurdy. It appears that the negotiations for peace are being taken seriously. At any rate Bismarck has put forward his conditions. While R. is passing a picture shop in which portraits of the Prussian generals hang on display, he hears a boy cursing and saying, "All these fellows ought to be impaled and hanged." All these Swiss are riddled with sympathy for the French. In the evening we read Raimund's Menschenfeind und Alpenkonig, R. has just received his works; much, much enjoyment from this original play. With his writings the same thing happened to him as with his acting talents: best of all he would have liked to play great heroic roles, but Nature put them out of his reach; he would also have preferred to write that way in the main, like Shakespeare, but he was confined within the bounds of the Viennese popular theater. However, in that field he is an incomparable genius.
January 28, 1871	114	Ordinary work and children are suddenly transformed by the news that Paris has capitulated. Richard announces it with a joking peace cigar, and Cosima is electrified despite having expected the outcome. The household remains excited all evening, though the familiar discipline of reading Gibbon continues.	Saturday, January 28: Work and children, all are well, and Fidi shining brightly. After lunch I lie down to rest. R. comes into the silent room and, uncertain whether I am asleep or not, says in Saxon dialect, "I am lighting a peace cigar; Paris has capitulated." Electrified, I leap to my feet and ask if it is true. It really is true; Jakob brought the news from town, completely phlegmatic in the usual Swiss way. It was not unexpected, yet it comes to me as such a surprise, so breathtakingly sudden. We shall not march into Paris, and that is splendid. In great excitement all evening, but read Gibbon attentively all the same.
January 29, 1871	268	After the capitulation, Cosima passes a sleepless night in religious reflection on sacrifice, death, and her happiness in living for Richard. Tender family scenes and Richard's praise of her central place in the household are shadowed by her shyness about visitors and the outside world. Music with the quartet restores Tribschen's joy, even as news from Paris remains sparse.	Sunday, January 29: No sleep, in a deeply religious mood thinking of the dead, of the living, of myself, my unworthiness, the inexpressible happiness of living for R. in this time of hope. Sent Minna five thalers, wrote to my mother and to Hedwig. Gazing at me, R. tells me how touched he was in Starnberg to see all of my family reflected in my face, my father, Blandine, and Daniel; all the friendliness he had encountered from this direction was concentrated in me. The five children at my bedside in their Sunday clothes. "Such dignity surrounding you," R. says, laughing, "and you are only a child yourself. All these beings depend on you; you are the axle on which it all turns." He says that yesterday he sent Frau Wille a telegram inviting her to lunch. Though I am pleased, I tell him how shy I am of the world, how nervous, and how I can only cling tight to him. "Well, what about me?" he asks. "Oh, the world is yours, you work for it and it loves you." "That is all silly rubbish, as you very well know." Yesterday came news of Porges's failure as theater director. "It is a fine thing," says R., "the way all these sinister misunderstandings in Munich never cease. If only I could assure these people that I shall never again set foot in the dreary place!" At midday the musicians, and a bowl of salad over my favorite dress! Studied the C-sharp minor quartet and "Es muss sein"; great joy in Tribschen again. No further news of the capitulation.
January 30, 1871	392	Cosima's improved health lets Richard jokingly call her his imperial crown, and the couple imagines Bismarck dwarfing the French negotiators. Beethoven's late quartets and Richter's arrangement of the morning music inspire reflections on concision, memory, and the unconscious way music contains a whole life. Fog keeps them indoors, but letters, historical projects, and delight in Fidi keep the day vivid.	Monday, January 30: Yesterday I was not feeling well; today I am better. R. is pleased and says the quartet has cured me. "You are my imperial crown," he says jokingly. We picture to ourselves the conversation between Bismarck and the puny Frenchman: "Where are you then, little people?" Bismarck will say, searching like Polyphemus for the tiny figures. R. yesterday told the musicians that the difference between the last quartets and the earlier ones lies in their tremendous concision, and this is also where the difficulty of interpreting these works lies; since everything in them is solid core and they no longer contain any frills, each note must be played consciously, otherwise the result is unclear. That is why these things have the reputation of being incomprehensible, though, properly played, they are thoroughly melodious and indeed easy to grasp. Gambetta is reported to have handed in his resignation; that would be a good thing. After lunch the musicians played us the Idyll in an arrangement by Richter; much emotion! R. said how curious it seemed to him: all he had set out to do was to work the theme which had come to him in Starnberg, when we were living there together, and which he had promised me as a quartet, into a morning serenade, and then he had unconsciously woven our whole life into it, Fidi's birth, my recuperation, Fidi's bird, etc. As Schopenhauer said, this is the way a musician works; he expresses life in a language which reason does not understand. "If I were a young fellow," R. said, "how I should like now to complete my Barbarossa, my Bernhard von Weimar! Frederick the Great still occupies my thoughts; his state of mind is in fact a true picture of our own up till now, the imagination French, but the essential being thoroughly German. This division ought to give the work an extremely interesting profile." We still do not go out; fog and snow are too dense. Nice letter from an old friend, Alwine Frommann, who is also a friend of the Queen of Prussia; we are very pleased to receive a sign of life from this lady of 70. Always great delight in Fidi: "If nothing comes of this one, then the devil take child making; one will have to try it like Wagner with the Homunculus."
January 31, 1871	149	The Emperor's telegram fills Cosima and Richard with hope and gratitude. Practical musical business appears in a tenor's request and Richard's thoughts about a coronation march as a possible source of money. His letter describing life with Cosima leaves her overwhelmed by unworthiness, thanks, and the sight of Richard cheerful among healthy children.	Tuesday, January 31: The German Emperor's fine telegram; R. and I are aglow with hope, may Heaven send us blessings! A tenor, Schleich, asks for an attestation that the role of Lohengrin cannot be sung when one has catarrh; R. gives it to him. R. has been composing coronation marches during the night; he is thinking a little about it because of the money. He replies to his friend Alwine Frommann and describes his life with me in a way which I do not know what I have done to deserve. How could I complain of life, when it has brought me so much more happiness than I could ever deserve? If all the world's sufferings had stormed me, I should have had no cause to complain, and now that I see R. in high spirits and the children well, I could spend all day in prayers, expiations, thanks!
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