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 1872 (30 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
January 1, 1872	158	The year opens with a deeply moving surprise: garlanded children wake the narrator with a song and gifts, along with portraits that stir overwhelming gratitude and delight. That joy is quickly shadowed when Lulu falls ill with a fever, pulling the household into worry and care. Amid the domestic strain, there are also signs of intellectual life and support, including news for the Wagner societies and a kind letter from Alwine Frommann.	Monday, January 1: Children's voices wake me; they are singing 'All hail to the mother' and come garlanded to my bedside. I am very touched by the singing, the faces, and the goodness of R., who rehearsed them. I am made to go downstairs while things are being set up, then I am summoned. The garlanded children sing once more, bring me their gifts on cushions, and I see R.'s picture by Lenbach and a portrait of my father, also by Lenbach. Joy beyond words over the masterpieces and the whole presentation ceremony! But immediately afterward I become aware that Lulu is unwell. I put her to bed; the doctor discovers that she has a high temperature. Sorrow and concern, 'the sad tune.' Arrival of the report to the Wagner Societies. Yesterday we read J. Grimm's speech on Schiller, which arrived for R., along with other very interesting things from Uhland's library. Letter from Alwine Frommann, very nice.
January 2, 1872	271	Lulu survives the night tolerably, while the family also sees a nephew depart in bright weather and receives a letter from Richter. Wagner is buoyed by the piano tuner’s arrival and his own progress on the third act, which lifts the narrator into near-euphoria despite concern for Lulu. The day is marked by a small quarrel over her absence downstairs, followed by his remorse and a tender discussion of love that treats true union as rare and miraculous.	Tuesday, January 2: Lulu had a tolerable night. Departure of our nephew in fine sunshine. Letter from Richter. The piano tuner comes; R. prepares himself to start on his third act. This makes me boundlessly happy, indeed lighthearted, in spite of my concern over Lusch; and since the very splendid weather gives us a view of the gleaming mountains, which we have long been without, we go for a walk, I almost overpowered by my high spirits. We return home and drink tea with Lulu, she herself having to consume much lime-blossom tea, 'for he who will not hear must feel, he who has a cold must sweat,' R. tells her. I stay with Lulu, but promise R. to go downstairs. Since, worried about Lulu's delirious ramblings, I cannot do this, R. comes up to me and is offended; so offended that he reproaches me with not having understood his desire for my presence downstairs. In the evening he improvises wonderfully, and when I am in bed he comes to me and asks me to forgive his anger. I have to forgive him for anything! ... He says it would be better if we did not love each other so, for then he would not torment me so much. Recently we had a long talk about love and being in love; he said the latter often occurred without the former, and that was very bad, but the former without the latter was a play of the imagination and possessed no power. One needed both together, but that was a miracle, so rare is it. He writes to Dr. Standhartner and Kafka.
January 3, 1872	772	Wagner asks that the previous evening be forgotten, blaming too much beer, and the day brings a new book by Professor Nietzsche along with a touching letter from Malwida von Meysenbug. The narrator is moved to find him tearful over Fidi and exhilarated by the idea that he, too, has lived to see such work and such companionship. Even while Lulu remains ill and practical matters demand attention, the household is energized by the start of the third act and by their evening reading of Nietzsche, which they find splendid and full of promise.	Wednesday, January 3: R. asks me not to give any thought to yesterday - he had been drinking too much beer! Arrival of Prof. Nietzsche's book. A very nice letter to me from M. Meysenbug. R. reads it while I am with the doctor, and when I come downstairs I find him regarding Fidi with tears in his eyes. 'You and the family are my sunshine,' he says. 'Now I understand Lenbach's portrait - a person who is as happy as I am dares to face life and he accepts the world's challenge; he neither makes melancholy eyes nor lets his head hang. The only trouble is that I do not want to die.' Lenbach's portrait pleases me more and more, although I know that R. can also look quite different, as, for example, when I saw him at the railroad station in Mannheim, beaming, transfigured, and with such a sweet expression on his face that his features looked small and delicate; here everything is sharp and energetic, unyielding. R. is humorously vexed that he is so ugly. I spent the morning with Lulu; at midday I find R. very excited and stimulated by Prof. Nietzsche's book. He is happy to have lived to read it; he says after me comes N. and then Lenbach, who painted his picture, and he observes how dreary his life would have been if he had died ten years ago; in what universal chaos, 'a region to which I now gladly consign many things,' would his memory remain! He calls me his priestess of Apollo - he says I am the Apollonian element, he the Dionysian, but we made an alliance, a pact, and from it came Fidi. Silly letter from Prof. Werder to Alw. Frommann, correcting the account of the meeting in Berlin after Der fliegende Holländer, as if anything mattered except the impression which R. received! R. has today begun his third act; thrice-blessed day! But my Lulu is still ill, and I stay beside her, hardly seeing the other children. Letter from Marie Schl. I myself attend to all sorts of business affairs in the morning, among them Herr v. Rothschild, who has again sent me no money. On the subject of my father's Christus, which he is now having performed in Vienna and about which Marie Much is concerned on account of the bad conductor, Rubinstein, R. says: 'How curious your father is! He allows the most horrible performances to take place, smiling when I talk of model performances, yet he wants his things to be performed before an audience for which he thinks anything is good enough. It is all just a matter of appearances; that is how the world judges things, and people like us are regarded as peasants when they prefer to produce nothing rather than something false.' In the evening we read Nietzsche's book, which is really splendid; R. thinks of the people who at the moment set the tone in Germany and wonders what the fate of this book will be. He hopes in Bayreuth to start a periodical, which Prof. Nietzsche would edit. Thursday, January 4: Lusch much better, a quiet night. While with her in the morning I write to Mama and to Lenbach, thanking him for the splendid pictures. R. works and sings me the ravishing song of the Rhinemaidens. The joy of creativity has now returned to this house - may God preserve it! We drive into town and return home with R. through fog, darkness, and snow. I think of the times when I lived here against all the rules, like a dream figure, and when this landscape seemed so appropriate. Letter yesterday from Marie Schl., but otherwise no positive news of the material situation. We read in the newspaper that Baron Perfall has been promoted to the title of Excellency; every time it begins to look as if the King were showing favor to R., he hastens to restore the balance in this manner. Strange, unaccountable being! In the evening we read more of Nietzsche's book, which gives R. ever-increasing satisfaction, but we wonder where the public for it is to be found. R. ends the day by saying, 'My love for you is both Dionysian and Apollonian.' Yesterday he told me of a ceremony he had attended in Heiligenstadt near Vienna, when a plaque was fixed to the house in which Beethoven had lived, stating that there Beethoven had composed the Pastoral. 'Well,' says R., 'you have only to see that place, its barren nature, to see what the relationship is between the work of genius and its creator's life.'
January 5, 1872	158	The day begins with Wagner asking the narrator to let go of yesterday’s tension, and he works in a buoyant mood, singing from the Rheingold material as if the house itself were revived by creation. He is delighted by the family life around him and speaks warmly of their marriage and the happiness of remembering earlier hardships from a position of success. That mood is abruptly broken when news arrives that his sister Luise has died, a shock they had not even expected.	Friday, January 5: Spoke much about the King; what shall we still experience through him? A lady from Transylvania sends R. thanks and blessings for the impressions she owes to him, Amalie von Konyvas-Toth, in Torda. R. works, and laughs at my being so happy about it: he says, 'Yes, I know, I am just a composing machine.' R. sends for me and sings me the second verse of the Rhinemaidens. He corrects something which he thinks sounds too 'Altenburgian' - 'for what is very bold must seem natural.' At lunch he becomes very high-spirited and says how lovely it is that we are married, 'that all this is here, the children and you - now I enjoy talking about my earlier days, for nessun maggior piacer, che ricordarsi del tempo infelice nella gloria.' He goes into town and returns with the news that his sister Luise is dead. We had not even heard that she was ill.
January 6, 1872	272	The narrator and Wagner continue reading Nietzsche with growing admiration, feeling both solemnity and pleasure as the book deepens their excitement. Much of the day is spent discussing the Bayreuth theater and how a performance space should be shaped, along with Wagner’s ideas for a communal, immersive presentation of Beethoven’s Mass. His work is interrupted by a bad night and Lulu’s illness, but he still calls Nietzsche’s book the one he has been waiting for and is cheered by an anonymous poem from Heidelberg.	Saturday, January 6: Yesterday we read Nietzsche's new book, with solemn feelings and ever-increasing pleasure. Two problems are still occupying us: the construction of the theater and what a theater should actually be like. Looking at Semper's drawing and not being satisfied with the solution of the exterior, R. says it was perhaps fortunate that it was never built. I ask R. why it should not be constructed with a dome like a church, so that the stage section would not stand out so much... Then he tells me he still wants to fulfill my wish and perform Beethoven's great Mass, but he has his own ideas about it; he would like to place the orchestra in the middle of the hall, with the chorus surrounding it as in a circus. Everyone should join in the singing, the Latin text, however, scarcely audible, for this music is not just to be listened to; the true impression is gained only by those who are swept along inside it - he discovered that with the Ninth Symphony in Dresden. In fact, he says, all music is designed for its executants, a sonata for a solo player, a trio ditto; the princes kept musicians, but the musicians went one better and wrote for themselves. Unfortunately R. had a very bad night and can do little work. Lulu is somewhat better; I am constantly with her, write letters to M. Meysenbug and to Marie Schl. Thaw and foehn. I finished Prof. Nietzsche's book in the evening. 'This is the book I have been longing for,' says R. He has received a fine poem anonymously from Heidelberg.
January 7, 1872	126	A routine letter from the King arrives, and Wagner spends the day working while the narrator writes to family and clears paperwork. A misaddressed letter calling him a theater director in Bayreuth prompts dry amusement, and a remark about Laube leads him to reflect on modernity and artistic ruin. The evening turns serious with the opening of the Oresteia and renewed anger over hostile newspaper comments about her father’s Christus.	Sunday, January 7: Letter from the King in the usual tones. R. works; I write to my father and to Alwine Frommann. Yesterday evening I put away files. A letter comes addressed to 'Herr R. W., theater director in Bayreuth'; R. says, 'Laube at least got as far as theater director in Vienna!' Talking of Laube, R. says, 'The idea of modernity ruined him; whatever is modern is always best.' In the evening we begin the Oresteia, with a very powerful impact; we talked a lot about Nietzsche's book. We also read some malicious things about my father's Christus in the newspaper; R. is very indignant and intends to make it a condition, if he conducts a concert in Vienna, that no critics will be admitted.
January 8, 1872	111	Hans’s birthday is noted, though Wagner again has a poor night and the household remains under strain. Unexpected visitors from Bayreuth, banker Feustel and the mayor, bring welcome news and offer a better site for the theater, leading to a decision to move there in the summer. The day ends with the completion of Agamemnon, which Wagner praises not only for its grandeur but for its stone-like craftsmanship.	Monday, January 8: Hans's birthday! R. unfortunately did not have a good night. From Bayreuth the banker Feustel and the mayor suddenly announce a visit. They actually come, spend the day with us, and please me very much. They offer another site for the theater, better than the one previously chosen, and we settle on moving there in the summer. Letters from Herr v. Loen and Councilor DiifHipp. In the evening the completion of Agamemnon. When I tell R. that not only the tremendous naivete but also the tremendous mastery of it move me so much, R. says, 'Not just mastery, but craftsmanship - it is as if carved in stone.'
January 9, 1872	113	Wagner remains sleepless and unwell, and a letter from the councilor gives him little pleasure, though he continues to respect the King’s loyalty to the original plan. Despite feeling weak, he returns to work and the couple takes a drive through weather that shifts from sunshine to snow. Their evening reading of the Choephoroi leaves them deeply moved, while criticism of her father’s Christus stokes Wagner’s indignation and his resolve to exclude reviewers from a Vienna concert.	Tuesday, January 9: R. still not having good nights. Councilor D.'s letter gave him little pleasure. 'But I must always increasingly respect and admire the way the King keeps to the original position and fulfills my wishes despite everything.' The councilor wrote that with his 25,000 thalers for certificates of patronage the King had really had in mind sending people there, perhaps Herr v. Perfall. R. could not work yesterday, but today he sits down again at his loom. Unfortunately he does not feel well. We go for a drive together; a fine, sunny morning has transformed itself into a wild, snowy afternoon. In the evening we read Choephoroi, which deeply moved us.
January 10, 1872	314	The morning brings another bad night for Wagner, but it also opens into an animated conversation about how musical performance should become participatory rather than passive. He reveals his wish to join a musical performance with the laying of the foundation stone, and the narrator is overjoyed to have independently imagined the same idea. Wagner then plans an ambitious Bayreuth performance of the Ninth Symphony, tends to her financial affairs, writes a warm letter to the sick Nietzsche, and ends the day with the Eumenides.	Wednesday, January 10: Again R. did not have a good night! At breakfast we again discuss musical performances - how to arrange them so that the audience can take an active part, not just listen. Yesterday R. disclosed to me his decision to combine a musical performance with the laying of the foundation stone, and I had to dance for joy, for I had had this very thought myself, but had been scared of expressing it, fearing to cause him yet further excitement and to appear, as it were, to be saying that the laying of the foundation stone was not enough for me. I ask for the Ninth Symphony. And R. intends to put an appeal in the newspapers, saying that he is going to perform the Symphony in Bayreuth, is prepared to pay travel and living expenses, and now invites musicians to come along. He needs 300 singers and 100 orchestral players, and his only condition is that they have to have taken part in a performance of the Symphony before. He says he will then see how far his power extends when confronted with conductors, managers, choral institutions, etc. 'Hardly has the cur got over his blows than he is back again nibbling!' The dear man is working! He shows me Brünnhilde's last words again and says he wants to use some of the new verse, but I beg him to alter Wunschheim and Wahnheim, which I find somewhat artificial. R. goes into town and takes care of my affairs. I now have 12,000 francs for the children with the banker and 182 francs laid aside in the savings bank, and, since R. insists that I reckon the other 3,000 francs with that, the total would be 15,000. Prof. Nietzsche writes that he is ill, whereupon R. writes him a touching and affectionate letter. In the evening we read the Eumenides.
January 11, 1872	72	Wagner is still sleeping badly, yet he keeps working through discomfort and frustration with his persistent physical state. A family lunch and a pleasant letter from Karl Klindworth about the Kaisermarsch offer some comfort, especially since the praise comes from a musician’s point of view. By evening he looks worn out, but he remains absorbed in household plans and the shaping of their house.	Thursday, January 11: R. is still sleeping badly! But he works nevertheless; yet he is vexed about his constant indisposition. Family lunch. R. is still pleased about the letter received yesterday from Karl Klindworth, who speaks very nicely about the Kaisermarsch, and from the point of view of a musician. We conversed in the evening. R. is quite indisposed and is looking worn out; he occupied himself a lot with our house.
January 12, 1872	219	R. slept badly again, while a tailor in Milan pressed to work for him and the household received photographs from Munich that pleased him more than me. He stayed absorbed in the house plans and even voiced a dark fear that the King’s death could undo everything. Though I was unwell and still taught the children, the day was threaded through with a deep, almost aching sense of closeness between us, ending in a long discussion of Aeschylus and Shakespeare.	Friday, January 12: Again R. did not sleep; letter from our tailor Chaillou-Ghezzi in Milan, who really wants to work for R.; delightful Italian ambitiousness. R. works; I am very unwell, but give the children their lessons. In the afternoon the photographs from Munich arrive; they do not appeal to me very much, but R. is satisfied with them. R. is constantly working on the plans for our house; he suddenly says, “And if the King dies, everything will be lost.” Unutterable feelings of love for R. R. says, “I say nothing, I just feel very happy, don’t know whether I love you, only know that I take a heavenly joy in you, and my only vexation is having so much to do that I cannot enjoy my happiness fully.” In the evening we talked a lot about Aeschylus. “The remarkable thing about this truly great being is that one hardly notices the way it is done! It does not appear to be art at all, because it is in fact something much higher: improvisation. With Schiller, one can imagine how things came into his mind and how he considered manipulating them; but not in Shakespeare or Aeschylus.” “I should like to die in you,” I say to R., a poor expression for my feelings, my longing to be nothing apart from him.
January 13, 1872	108	I spent the day thinking about my dress for the foundation-stone ceremony, while R. prepared his speech and kept to his work. He returned from town with an absurd request from De Gubernatis to write music for a dramatic poem, which only added to the day’s odd mixture of seriousness and frivolity. In the evening, Euripides left me cold, though a scene from Iphigenia in Aulis briefly restored my sense of Greek beauty, and R. finished the plans for our house.	Saturday, January 13: Designed my dress for the foundation-stone laying; R. thinks of his speech and says he will conform to Luther’s rule: “Enter boldly, open your mouth, shut it soon.” He works, and in the afternoon goes into town, from where he brings back a childish letter from Herr De Gubernatis enclosing König Nala (a dramatic poem) and a request to compose the music to it! In the evening The Bacchae of Euripides made a very distasteful impression; but one scene from Iphigenia in Aulis - the parting of Achilles and Clytemnestra - brings back to me all the beauty of Greek literature. R. completes the plans for our house.
January 14, 1872	125	Sunday brought letters, sweets from Italy, and news that Wagner societies were spreading in Brussels, Cologne, and Vienna. R. handled bills and business worries, while I wrote letters and tried to keep the children cheerful and lively. That evening Schopenhauer and the thought of Bayreuth’s meaning weighed on my heart, but love remained the only real consolation.	Sunday, January 14: R. works, I write letters; some more Lohengrin sweets have arrived from Italy, and also sweetmeats from the Mendeses. The statutes of the Wagner Society in Brussels also arrive, and news that a similar society has been formed in Cologne. Marie Schleinitz writes to R., but nothing positive; it is to be hoped Cohn will soon tell us how things stand. Many bills vex R. He goes into town on business matters. In the evening we take up Schopenhauer again. Explanation of the name Bayreuth, heim Keuth [“beside the clearing”]. Heaviness of heart; only love helps, to love through every moment! The children are high-spirited and lively; they are all becoming quite pretty. Letter from Dr. Kafka; the Wagner Society in Vienna is very active.
January 15, 1872	326	News came that Hans was in Pest and playing even more impressively than before, which pleased us both. R. grew especially animated after reading Schopenhauer, comparing Bach’s fugues to a crystal taking form and dismissing Mozart and Beethoven for treating the genre too lightly. The arrival of the 9th Symphony manuscript filled me with joy, and R. spoke with unusual tenderness about how fully my life has become bound up with his.	Monday, January 15: Letter from Richter, saying that Hans was in Pest, looked very well, was very pleasant, and was perhaps playing even more outstandingly than before. After we had been reading Schopenhauer yesterday, R. says, “A Bach fugue is like a crystal forming, then solidifying on the pedal point.” Then he said of Beethoven and Mozart, “As far as fugues are concerned, these gentlemen can hide their heads before Bach, they played with the form, wanted to show they could do it too, but he showed us the soul of the fugue; he could not do otherwise than write in fugues.” Arrival of the manuscript of the 9th Symphony; infinite joy. This manuscript, well preserved by Schott’s, is now more than 40 years old, and now it has come into my hands! R. says jokingly, “You have stored up my whole life around me - without you I should know nothing of my life.” R. works; he says he again has to write fateful episodes, which he cannot bear; things like the Lohengrin Prelude, the “Bridal March,” etc., he enjoys doing. The arrangements of the Five Songs for violin also arrive. R. says: “With my so-called love affairs it was just as with my marriage; Minna married me when I was in a very wretched position, attacked even as a conductor, utterly without glory, and she was pretty and much sought after, but all the same I was quite without influence over her. And thus it was, too, with the other relationships, they all belonged in another sphere, and the only unaccountable thing about them is the power I exercised in passing, making Minna marry me, for example.” He then adds, “Incidentally, no one else would have suited or fitted me better; you were the only one who complemented me; with all the others I spoke in monologues.” In the evening we read Schopenhauer, in great exaltation. [In the margin: “I ink in the sketches of the 3rd act of Siegfried.”]
January 16, 1872	201	The day was filled with editing, correspondence, and the effort to keep a newly printed edition from being ignored. I gave lessons, read to the children, and later argued with R. over the death of Bayard in The Four Sons of Aymon, which led us into a sharper moral debate than either of us expected. By night we were still reading Schopenhauer and talking philosophy long after everyone should have slept.	Tuesday, January 16: Prof. N. sends the copies of the de luxe edition. We consider how to prevent his books being killed by silence. R. works and is very agitated when he comes down to lunch. I ink in and give the children lessons. In the afternoon R. goes into town, then he starts the preface to the fifth and sixth volumes of his collected writings. I read The Four Sons of Aymon to the little ones, but have to break off at the death of the horse Bayard; we talk about this aspect. R. explains it as a noble killing off of the will; I say that it is only a step from there to Peter Arbués, who did not bother with laments and tears, and in my opinion Aymon’s sons should have perished along with the horse - what is the use of atonement and a holy life after such a deed? R. agrees with me and says, “The sacrifice of Bayard is in fact a piece of infamy; a thing like that is alien to the Hindus and also to Christ, it is specifically Catholic.” In the evening we read a lot of Schopenhauer and philosophized till one o’clock in the morning.
January 17, 1872	109	We discussed how the Ninth Symphony might be performed in Bayreuth, and R. described one recurring theme as if it were a stormy witches’ cauldron. He worked through the day and finally completed the preface to his fifth and sixth collected volumes. A walk in the beautiful weather lifted the mood, and the evening closed with more Schopenhauer and the gift of the second volume of the Renaissance.	Wednesday, January 17: We discuss the performance of the Ninth in Bayreuth and how to organize it. When we talk of the Symphony itself, R. says, “When the theme in fifths recurs in the middle of the first movement, it always strikes me as a sort of Macbethian witches’ cauldron in which disasters are being brewed - it does literally seethe.” Richard works, I give lessons and ink in. In the afternoon we go for a walk together in the loveliest weather. R. finishes the preface to his fifth and sixth volumes in the evening. Later we read Schopenhauer again. In the morning R. brings me the second volume of the Renaissance.
January 18, 1872	115	After receiving Alpine flora photographs, I wrote to Nietzsche while R. stayed at work. Later, amid family life and a walk with the children, a letter from Clemens brought up the fact that Nietzsche’s book had been misunderstood, and R. answered at length. The day also had a sweet domestic note when Fidi sang almost all of a song, and R. remembered his own early delight in mastering language.	Thursday, January 18: Yesterday Herr Heckel sent us the photographs of his Alpine flora. I write to Prof. Nietzsche while R. works. Then I go for a walk with the children; later family lunch. Letter from Clemens: the Nietzsche book has not been understood there; R. replies to him at length, telling him what he thinks of the book and its author. Fidi sings “Heil Mutter, unsre Mama” - almost the whole song! R. says that it reminds him of his second year, when he saw Wilhelm Tell lying on the ground and said, “Ell, Ell.” He was praised for knowing the name, whereas his feeling was of pleasure at getting his tongue around it. In the evening, Schopenhauer.
January 19, 1872	169	R. worked intensely but complained that composing stole the happiness he wanted to feel with the children. I went out with them in the sunshine, while uncertainty about business matters and the silence from Baron Cohn continued to irritate us. A dead palm tree I had once received from R. struck me with unexpected sadness, though an Indian tale read aloud later soothed everyone’s spirits.	Friday, January 19: R. works a lot, but is angry with his “composing,” maintaining that it keeps him from enjoying his happiness. He so longs to be with the children, whose every word is gold. I go out with the children in splendid sunshine. Letter from Marie Schleinitz, but still nothing from Baron Cohn; God knows how things stand; nobody knows at all how business is progressing. R. is very annoyed about it. R. is made honorary member of the Society of Friends of Music. An article about “Hans von Bülow” by Herr Schelle in Vienna has been sent to me. It leaves no pleasant impression. A palm which R. gave me two years ago has died; I entrusted it to the servants, and now the tree looks at me so reproachfully that I feel a stab in my heart. R. returns from his walk in a bad humor, but is cheered up by a tale from the Panchatantra, which he reads to us and which charms us all. In the evening Schopenhauer.
January 20, 1872	85	R. told me he had dreamed of my steadiness, though his thoughts kept drifting into astronomical calculations. While I handled the children and he corrected proofs, Nietzsche arrived unexpectedly and delighted us with conversation about the future and school reform. His visit ended with him playing one of his compositions, giving the whole day a bright and stimulating turn.	Saturday, January 20: R. tells me he dreamed of me and my steadfastness; then, however, perihelion and aphelion kept going through his mind. He works; I give the children lessons and then go for a walk with Fidi. Lusch goes to her piano lesson. In the afternoon I am working with the children, and R. on his proofs. Prof. Nietzsche pays us a surprise visit, which pleases us very much. Many things are discussed: plans for the future, school reform, etc.; he plays us his composition very beautifully.
January 21, 1872	38	The fine weather continued, and six of us went for a morning walk before turning to the second act of Götterdämmerung in the afternoon. In the evening we talked about the Werder affair, which still mattered a great deal to us. The day felt calm on the surface, but it was held together by shared work, loyalty, and the depth of our friendships.	Sunday, January 21: Still fine weather; six of us go for a morning walk. In the afternoon we went through the second act of Götterdämmerung. In the evening we discussed the Werder episode. Our friend means very much to us.
January 22, 1872	191	Feustel reports that a floor has been rented in the Fantaisie, but the larger building plan is already clouded by money worries. Letters from Cohn and Baron Cohn reveal that the promised subscriptions are far below what had been hoped for, which leaves R. deeply alarmed. The household goes out to town in tense silence, and R. starts considering a journey to sort things out with the Wagneriana, while a spider crawling over Cohn’s letter becomes the evening’s only odd comfort. The day ends in heaviness and quiet strain.	Monday, January 22: Feustel reports that he has rented a floor in the Fantaisie for us, and also mentions a letter sent off yesterday, which we have not received. R. works until nearly two, then the letter arrives. It states that Cohn has not yet sent anything, and that the credit for the whole building operation must be secured before work can begin. At the same time R. receives a letter from Baron Cohn, showing a subscription of 20,000 thalers! Baron Loen had spoken of 50,000 and reported that he himself had signatures for 28,000 thalers in his portfolio, yet for Baron Cohn he lists only 12,000. R. is very alarmed at this news; we walk to town in silence and return home. R. has the idea of making a journey in order to come to an understanding with the Wagneriana. Were it possible to let this cup pass from us! I send a telegram to Heckel, asking whether he could set out at once as R.'s plenipotentiary. Perhaps he can be spared the journey. The only comforting thing is a spider which runs persistently over Cohn's letter by lamplight. Heavy, silent evening!
January 23, 1872	168	R. concludes that he must make the trip himself, and the mood in the house collapses at the thought of his departure. Heckel cannot leave his business, so the hoped-for substitute disappears and R. settles into drafting plans and assessing the situation. Lenbach writes that another portrait of R. is nearly finished, but the news cannot soften the sense of disruption. The children cry, the household feels emptied out, and an awkward Hamburg admirer adds one more complication to the day.	Tuesday, January 23: R. feels he will have to make the journey, so goodbye now to the working mood. Oh, how sad, how sad! I feel crushed. Herr Heckel replies by telegram that he cannot leave his business for any length of time, and he asks for details of the time and place. R. says: “It was just a shot in the dark; it would have been a miracle to have hit straightaway on the right person who could place himself at my disposal at once.” He writes down his plan and a survey of the situation. So dive down deep, Rhinemaidens, alas, for how long? In the afternoon a letter from Lenbach, saying he has nearly finished another portrait of R. R. prepares for his journey; the children are in tears over his departure, and I feel as if wiped out. On top of it all, a Hamburg enthusiast asks for a letter. Childish friendship against calculated hostility. Bülow is now in Berlin, which is also an embarrassing factor.
January 24, 1872	205	R. leaves for his journey, and the departure becomes a charged family scene marked by affection and unease. Before going, he plays the last page of the first scene, speaks with unusual tenderness about the work, and insists that the real creative force remains intact. At the station he tries to reassure the narrator, calling himself happy and grateful for the wife he has been given. After he is gone, the evening turns heavy and domestic, with children to manage, letters to answer, and a melancholy return to solitude.	Wednesday, January 24: Departure today; Bernhard Loeser is in Berlin; this is the main transaction, then Cohn and Loen, to whom R. has written. R. leads me to the piano and plays me the last page of the first scene. “Yes,” he says, “when the donkey feels his oats, he goes for a dance on the ice. I complained of having to compose; now things see to it that I cannot continue. But this does not touch the vital nerve, that is safe; you are the driving force and embryo for everything, and I have you. Now I am going, but that is better than if you went.” Contemplating the children at lunch, he says, “Only dreams help!” At one o'clock we go to the railroad station. “I remain in your protection,” he says to me. “I am happy, just look at me: an old man like me, and what a beautiful wife I have been given!” Embracing and waving, and then gone! I have no urge to go home and do some shopping. Back at five o'clock; toiling and moiling with the children, and in the evening upstairs, melancholy. Letters from E. Krockow and Marie Muchanoff. Arranged files; to bed around midnight. Began a letter to R.
January 25, 1872	52	A telegram from R. reports that he is in good spirits, which steadies the day somewhat. The narrator keeps busy with writing, teaching, and walking with the children, trying to think as little as possible about the separation. A sympathetic note from Prof. N. in Basel brings a bit of outside support, and the evening is spent quietly alone upstairs. The whole day has the feeling of careful restraint after an emotional strain.	Thursday, January 25: Telegram from R.; he is in good heart! I write, ink in, teach, go for a walk with the children, and think as little as possible. Prof. N. writes sympathetically from Basel, where he saw R. I write to Marie M. and spend the evening alone in the upstairs salon.
January 26, 1872	50	Fine weather and a reassuring telegram suggest that the difficult matter may yet resolve favorably. The narrator writes to R., walks in the garden, and lets the spring air and sunlight improve her mood. By evening, the moonlight and the day’s beauty deepen into a reflective melancholy rather than simple cheer. The reading of Beethoven adds to the inward, contemplative tone.	Friday, January 26: Splendid weather and a good telegram, saying there is hope of a good and easy settlement! I write to R. and feel better. Walk in the garden, spring sunshine and air. Glorious moonlight in the evening. The great, yet mild, indeed fair melancholy of life. (Read Beethoven J
January 27, 1872	64	With no telegram arriving, anxiety returns under a pale, cold sky. A letter from her father brings news of Hans’s successes in Vienna and Pest, along with the libretto of his Christus, but it does not fully dispel the worry. Later in the day a telegram from R. finally comes, saying he is resting and returning by way of Weimar, Dessau, and Bayreuth after deciding what to do. The evening ends more peacefully, with a satisfied reading of Tasso.	Saturday, January 27: No telegram, anxious mood; pale sunshine and the air cold. Letter from my father, with reports on Hans's great successes in Vienna and Pest. He sends the libretto of his Christus. Toward evening a telegram from R.; he is in need of rest, has decided what to do, and is returning via Weimar, Dessau, Bayreuth. In the evening read Tasso with great enjoyment.
January 28, 1872	144	Fog, snow, and frost replace the previous day’s brightness, and the household turns inward. The narrator works on penciled sketches, hears good news from a letter about Hins in Berlin, and takes Fidi into town to buy cakes for an evening gathering with her daughters. Their enjoyment is short-lived because Loldi falls ill, and the festivity has to be cut off. A frightening knocking later in the night leads to alarm, vigilance, and a restless sleep on a mattress in Kathchen’s room.	Sunday, January 28: Everything vanished: mountains, sun, blue sky; fog, snow, and frost! I ink in the penciled sketches. Lusch writes to her grandmama and receives a letter from her with good news of Hins in Berlin. Drove to town with Fidi; bought cakes for the evening party, having invited my four daughters to tea. Much delight among the little ones, who dress themselves with the utmost elegance. But we soon have to put an end to our pleasure, since Loldi is unwell. Toward half past ten, after I have finished Tasso and am going off to bed, I hear a loud knocking, and Fitzo barks; I call Kathchen, who had already heard the noise and was up; we look around, but see or find nothing; great fear. I have my mattress put on the floor in Kathchen's room and sleep, or rather lie awake, thus.
January 29, 1872	86	A telegram from R. says he is leaving Berlin for Weimar, and the relief is that the earlier warning did not concern him personally. Loldi remains seriously unwell, so the narrator spends the day nursing her and keeping close to her side. In the evening R. writes that matters are satisfactory, if not ideal, and that Feustel has unexpectedly become a useful ally. The day closes with letters sent to R., Frau Wesendonck, and Pohl.	Monday, January 29: Telegram from R. in Berlin: he is just (8 a.m.) leaving for Weimar. “Business settled” so the warning was not on his account! Loldi seriously unwell; I put her to bed and stay beside her. In the evening a letter from R.; everything seems satisfactory, if not exactly brilliant. Our conquest is Feustel, who took R. by surprise for the third time, came into his room, and is being helpful in everything. In the evening I write to R., also to Frau Wesendonck and Pohl.
January 30, 1872	132	Loldi improves a little, allowing the narrator to stay with her in the morning and then make an afternoon trip into town. Despite a small practical errand about dancing lessons, the day is shadowed by a sense of not belonging anywhere. A telegram from R. in Weimar says he is well and will go on to Bayreuth the next day, but the clipped telegraphic style only deepens the irritation. The night brings another strange knocking, reinforcing the unsettled mood.	Tuesday, January 30: So Loldi is somewhat better; I stay with her the whole day. Then toward evening I went to town to inquire about dancing lessons for the children. Melancholy mood; one does not belong here, but where in this life does one belong? Feelings of being a stranger all over the world! Telegram from R. in Weimar: he is well, traveling to Bayreuth tomorrow. I write to him in the evening. Vexation over this dry correspondence by telegram. (A week ago I was touched to read of the death of Msgr. Bucquet, my first father confessor; the best priest there can ever have been and the friend of my childhood; he also knew Daniel and Blandine and was very dear to all three of us.) In the night a curious knocking again.
January 31, 1872	42	Loldi is much better, and the day is calmer than the ones before it. A letter arrives from the narrator’s mother, while R. writes a short but comforting note from Berlin and sends caviar from Leipzig. The narrator spends part of the day with Loldi, goes into town in the afternoon, and later reads Nietzsche. The tone is one of recovery, modest domestic routines, and a little intellectual diversion at day’s end.	Wednesday, January 31: Loldi much better. Letter from my mother. With Loldi in the morning; in the afternoon to town. Letter from R. in Berlin, short, but good all the same. In the evening read Nietzsche's book. (R. sends some caviar from Leipzig.)
No diary entries found.