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 September 1881 (30 total)

Date	Word Count	Subject	Content
September 1, 1881	391	Richard makes a careful harmonic refinement to his score and then turns his attention to Handel, coaxing Brandt through a favorite aria and playing the Judas Maccabaeus march with evident enthusiasm, crediting Handel with enormous if morally ambiguous genius. Cosima is brought upstairs to view a portrait she finds amusing in its inaccuracy, and the day carries a distinctly Saxon, domestic warmth as Richard teaches young Siegfried to whistle in call-and-response. In the evening Richard discusses his article's engagement with Gobineau's racial theories, which he hopes to have shaped into something even consoling, and closes with wry remarks on climate, poverty, and the perplexing nature of the human species.	Thursday, September 1: R. had a good night’s rest and faces the day, apart from the bad weather, cheerfully. He works on his article and also on the score. In the latter he makes a small harmonic change in “holde süsse Mutter” and says, “One could spend a lifetime working on a thing like this.” Our good Marianne Brandt does some studying in our house; R. turns to Handel, takes out the Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day and asks M. Br. to sing his favorite piece from it, “The soft complaining flute”; she does not know how to sing it and R. demonstrates it to her. He also plays the march from Judas Maccabaeus, which he likes enormously, and at supper he maintains that Handel must surely have composed “God Save the King”: “The fellow was a scoundrel, but a genius as well.” His appearance reminds me somewhat of Rubens, and when I recognize elements of Beethoven in the march, it occurs to me that in his Battle of Vittoria Beethoven had no better model for the English character than Handel’s style, and the two then became identical. Before lunch I was led to my room, and I laugh heartily on seeing that R. has had Egusquiza’s portrait painted with bad portraits of him; he also dislikes the Lenbach sketch; he says he does not know what to think of me! All in the gayest manner, and now the Spaniard has turned quite pink! Today was R.’s Saxon day; he says, among other things, “When I sit here cackling at the piano...” And he talks of it to Siegfried, and he teaches Siegfried to whistle with him and to answer him! In the afternoon, as we are strolling in the garden, he talks to me about his article, and in the evening he comes back to it, saying that he hopes to have developed Gobineau’s views to the extent that there may now be something even consoling about them, although he has accepted these views in their entirety. In the evening he exclaims: “How little it speaks for human intelligence that they settle down in places with such climates and have beggars among them. What can one make of such a species?” Mentioning the luxury he saw in Herr Fould’s house in Paris, he says, “Marble statues stand and gaze at me, yawning. Why have you been brought here?”
September 2, 1881	381	The day opens on a genuinely encouraging note as Marianne Brandt's rehearsal convinces Richard that she can carry the role of Kundry, her deeply felt delivery of the first lines moving everyone present. Political discussion turns to the new Bishop of Trier and Bismarck's handling of the conflict with Rome, prompting Richard's admiring observation that Catholics alone among modern Europeans retain something of the Brahman's spiritual authority. The evening is reflective and intimate, with whist, the hopeful news of President Garfield's recovery, and Richard's warm recollections of past hardships giving way to a quiet sense that life has grown gentler.	Friday, September 2: R. had a good night, and the day brings the very pleasant assurance that Marianne Brandt will be able to sing Kundry well. R. summons me downstairs, since he is so pleased with her, and she touches us very deeply with her first words to Parsifal. Her outward appearance, we feel, can be overcome, since, as R. tells us, “Everything about Kundry is costume, her ugliness, her beauty, all of it a mask.” The affair of the newly installed Bishop of Trier, Dr. Korum, who has in the end been exempted from taking the oath, brings R. back to the manner in which Bismarck deals with things, even the struggle with Rome! I read a reporter’s account of a visit to Dr. Korum, in which the Bishop’s amiable reserve reveals all the superiority of the Catholics: “They are the only ones among us who still follow in the footsteps of the Brahmans,” R. says. R. is much taken up with his work, and he tells me in the evening that its significance depends on the detail and the settings. We play whist, I always with R., since he is quite happy to lose with me, but cannot bear me to win against him. Still dull and damp weather; we do not go out of doors, R. says the air barks at him. President Garfield’s condition seems to have improved slightly, and R. tells me that, when he said farewell to his wife and asked her to return to their home, telling her that, unless a miracle occurred, their final separation was nigh, his wife is reported to have replied with great energy, “The miracle will occur!” And now his condition is indeed said to have taken a turn for the better! We talk of separations, and how irremediable they are, that is to say, the impressions they leave behind. And R. recalls old times and all our many torments! “Things have become much nicer, much nicer,” he repeats. There was a discussion about the desire for money, and the children. “I don’t know what I should need money for, but as it is, in a saloon carriage on the railroad, for instance, with all the children’s heads at the windows, or in the theater watching them sideways, leaning forward in excitement, that is joy.”
September 3, 1881	117	Rain and gray skies accompany a day of back pain for Richard, who nonetheless persists with both his article and his score, spending the day haunted by the sounds of the mourning music that will accompany Parsifal's second entry into the Temple. He takes a solitary walk in the palace gardens and pays a neighborly visit, finding some relief in simple activity. The evening's conversation centers on aesthetic philosophy, with Richard contrasting the austere nobility of Greek costume and architecture against the overwhelming luxury of ancient Eastern civilizations.	Saturday, September 3: A dull day, rain, gray skies; R. has a backache. He works on his article and also on his score. All day long, he tells me, the sounds of the mourning music, Herzeleide, which accompanies Parsifal on his second entrance into the Temple, have been going through his mind. We play whist in the evening. R. went for a walk in the palace gardens by himself and then visits our neighbor Frau v. Scholer, in whose house we meet. In the evening the conversation turns to costumes, and R. says, “What makes the Greeks so noble is their simplicity, suddenly, amid all this Assyrian and Persian luxury, the divine simplicity of their costumes and their buildings!”
September 4, 1881	164	A leisurely Sunday at home blends music and literature as Cosima and the children play through the Götterdämmerung Prelude and Wagner shares his article aloud. The day takes on a playful quality as Wagner proudly shows off the fountain to the entire household, dressed in a blue robe, then reads Persian poetry aloud in the evening. His mood turns reflective at day's end, musing on whether posterity might discard him for composers who ask less of their audiences.	Sunday, September 4: The children and I finish reading Beethoven with Stein, then Lusch and I play the Prelude to Götterdämmerung, after which R. reads his article to me, and I float in the sublime. At lunch we had Herr Humperdinck, whom R. is able to praise for the way he accompanied Marianne Brandt. R. and I go for a walk; it is a fine day, the life of the dogs here a complete idyll. R. turns the fountain on, is pleased with it, appears as Wotan in a blue robe, and in the evening reads to us many poems by Hafiz. Beforehand he insisted on having the whole household, along with our friends, admire the fountain. While I am changing upstairs, he enlarges upon music and melody, and at the conclusion of the evening he wonders whether he will perhaps be entirely forgotten, ousted by someone who will make things easier for the audience. However, he concludes, “it won’t be easy to make it easy.”
September 5, 1881	48	The family departs and sees Isolde off at the Hof station, then travels onward with a smaller group of four. Wagner passes the journey reading Gobineau's travel writing and finds particular delight in the Tharandt landscape rolling by outside the train window.	Monday, September 5: Farewells, departure; saw Loldi off in Hof at 4 o’clock. R. reads Gobineau’s Trois ans en Asie; he is pleased with the countryside in the Erzgebirge, but most of all with Tharandt. (He, I, Eva, and Siegfried!) The two elder girls are in Kaibitz, Isolde in Bug.
September 6, 1881	242	A full day in Dresden takes the family between the art gallery, the dentist, and the zoo, with Wagner responding warmly to a Bol painting of the Holy Family while offering a nuanced aside about sentiment and art. His mood sours at a chorus rehearsal where the tempi of Der fliegende Holländer displease him enough to send instructions to the conductor. The evening performance of the same opera moves Cosima deeply, and Wagner takes an immediate liking to singer Therese Malten, visiting her backstage afterward.	Tuesday, September 6: A good night at the Hotel Bellevue in Dresden. The children’s first walk is to the dentist’s; I leave them there and visit the gallery alone, afterward going with R. to Dr. Jenkins and then back with all of them to the gallery. R. is pleased by some of the things I show him, including Bol’s picture of the Holy Family at rest. “A lovely picture!” he exclaims, and as we are talking about it, he says, “Perhaps going somewhat beyond art, since the subject in itself has a sentimental appeal.” We had breakfast beforehand at the Belvedere, and R. was pleased by its lovely surroundings. While I was in the gallery by myself, R. heard the chorus rehearsing the Holländer and was annoyed by the tempi. He sends word to the chorus master, asking to have it taken a bit slower. We have lunch on the Bellevue terrace at 2 o’clock and then drive through the beautiful park to the zoological gardens, where the elephant and other animals give us pleasure, but the people and their absurd behavior with the animals very little. In the evening Der fliegende Holländer. For me, much emotion; for R., a good impression of the singer [Therese] Malten, and he tells her so immediately afterward in her dressing room. He shows me and the children many things from his childhood years, including the old Kreuzschule. The theater, quite imposing from the outside, satisfies us very little inside.
September 7, 1881	286	Wagner spends a quiet morning absorbed in Gobineau's Asian travel memoir, interrupted briefly by conductor Schuch, whom he diplomatically sets straight on questions of tempo. The afternoon becomes a tour of personal Dresden memory as Wagner leads the family through childhood haunts—his nurse's house, the path to Weisser Hirsch where he once wept as a boy, an artist's studio. The day closes pleasantly over dinner at Jenkins's, where conversation ranges from climate to the bleakness of Athens.	Wednesday, September 7: R. had a good night; in the morning he stays indoors, reading Trois ans en Asie with much enjoyment, but he is interrupted by a visit from the conductor Schuch, who, however, as he tells us, was very modest, and he was able to put him right on the tempi without difficulty, particularly in the ballad, which begins too slowly and continues too fast. I stroll through the gallery with Evchen, then we go to the dentist’s, where the main joke between us is the additions R. makes to a letter I am writing to Jouk.! We have a late breakfast at the Belvedere, and since I have been telling R. much about the Canalettos, he says of a man who keeps looking at him, “He takes me for a Canaletto!” We drive out to the Waldschlösschen, where R. has a glass of beer and also gives one to the coachman; since the latter drinks very slowly, R. is greatly amused when the waiter remarks, “The coachman can’t lift his elbow.” R. shows us the Albrechtsburg (previously Finleder); his nurse’s house, not far from the statue of Augustus the Strong, which he often visited as a child; the Stille Musik; the path to the Weißen Hirsch, where as a boy of 12 he shed so many tears, having gone in vain with his sister Ottilie to meet their brother Albert and having to return home late on foot. Then in Kietz’s studio, and finally a very pleasant dinner at Jenkins’s. The various climates are discussed, and R. declares that where we live summer and winter are the same, and the trees turn green out of boredom. The pictures from Athens give the impression of a desert.
September 8, 1881	422	A crowded morning of unwanted visitors gives way to a frank exchange with Elsa Uhlig about the sale of letters and a tense but ultimately productive negotiation with publisher Dr. Strecker over the terms for Parsifal. An afternoon excursion retraces Wagner's early creative geography: the courtyard at Pillnitz where he once played for royalty, and the modest village of Gross-Graupen where Lohengrin first took shape. The evening ends on a generous note as Wagner, struck by a sense of fairness, privately regrets having pushed for an extra fifteen thousand marks.	Thursday, September 8: Yesterday R. invited several people to a late breakfast; they now arrive and disturb him greatly. He speaks frankly to Elsa Uhlig about the sale of the letters. Dr. Strecker, who had sought him in vain in Bayreuth, also turns up, but when the conductor Willner finally arrives, he sends him off to find me in the gallery. I drive with R. to Jenkins’s, where he always makes all kinds of jokes. At 2 o’clock we have lunch on the terrace with Dr. Strecker, to whom R. says, “My dentist has advised me to demand a lot of money from the house of Schott for Parsifal.” After arranging with Dr. S. to have another conference with him in the evening, we drive out to Pillnitz. R. shows me the courtyard in which he performed the music for the returning King; he also shows me where Baron von Lüttichau sat. A gentleman unknown to us, Councilor Braun, who saw us waiting for the guide, took us in, but since a swarm of other people followed us, we soon took our leave. We then drive to Gross-Graupen, where Lohengrin was first sketched. From such a cramped and indigent place did this world of brilliance and beauty shine forth! R. shows us the paths he often walked, and we come to the romantic Lochner mill, where we stop for refreshments. In darkness, late in the evening, we return home. Dr. Strecker arrives. To begin with, R. speaks to him very severely for having imagined that he had him in his power, having published the text; then, when Dr. Strecker apologizes, R. accepts his explanation that, in spite of their great success, his works are still not a good business proposition, and the terms of the contract are agreed upon. R. trusts this man, who behaves with great propriety, and he reduces some of his demands. A curious and frequently recurring characteristic of R.’s is the way in which, at the end, he asks after Dr. Strecker’s fiancée, and the latter, surprised, indeed almost disconcerted, announces that he became engaged about a week ago. And so great is R.’s sense of justice that, when we are alone, he regrets having made an additional demand for 15,000 marks. [Added fifteen pages later but referred back to this point: “At tea in the evening, R. talks about Der fliegende Holländer and says how sad he was to note so much in it that is just noise or repetition, that is to say, so many things that spoil the work.”]
September 9, 1881	132	Wagner bids a warm farewell to Dr. Strecker and is then deeply moved by a visit to old friends the Pusinellis, embracing Frau Pusinelli with feeling as thoughts of their late mutual friend weigh on him. The emotional toll of the morning, compounded by a chest spasm and a draining visit from a critic, leaves him worn before the evening even begins. The performance of Preciosa disappoints with wrong tempi and stilted declamation, failing to do justice to the charming work.	Friday, September 9: R. had a good night, is satisfied with the business arrangements, and says goodbye to Dr. Strecker in a very friendly way. At 12 o’clock he comes to Dr. Jenkins’s, and from there we go to the Pusinellis’, where we are expected. R. is greatly affected, embraces our good Frau Pusinelli very heartily, and talks feelingly about our loyal departed friend. On returning home, he has a chest spasm; the visit of the critic Dr. Hartmann wears him out, and we go, feeling somewhat worn out, to see Preciosa. The performance of this charming work is disappointing, the tempi wrong, though, curiously enough, the march which the conductor had dragged is played correctly by the musicians on stage. The declamation is absurd throughout, much too “Israel,” and in consequence everything a masquerade.
September 10, 1881	119	After a restless night Wagner cancels the dentist and the family keeps to themselves before making a pilgrimage to Weber's grave and then to the Marcolini palace, where Wagner conjures memories of Liszt's visit and of completing Lohengrin in its elegant rooms. He traces the route of Weber's funeral procession for Cosima, making Dresden feel like a city deeply entwined with her own life. The evening's Figaro troubles Cosima more than it pleases her, the opera's moral conclusions leaving her unable to fully appreciate its musical beauties.	Saturday, September 10: R. had a restless night and cancels his visit to the dentist. We eat in our rooms and then drive to the churchyard to visit Weber’s grave, then go on to Marcolini; R. shows us all his familiar places, including the beautiful Neptune fountain. He tells about my father’s visit there, and I am pleased that Lohengrin was completed in this lovely room. Before that he showed me the route Weber’s funeral procession had taken. And thus Dresden has become virtually a second home to me! In the theater we see Figaro. Much suffering over the subject and the conclusions, both all but unbearable to me, thus making it completely impossible to enjoy its beauties. (R. visited Tichatschek.)
September 11, 1881	156	After a poor night's rest, Wagner rallies for a late breakfast with London acquaintances the Schlesingers, finding the wife particularly agreeable. The evening brings genuine delight as Der Freischütz works on the audience like a breath of forest air, though Wagner is struck by how thoroughly the traditional staging conventions have been lost on the performers. At the final curtain an admiring young woman works up the courage to approach him and express her gratitude.	Sunday, September 11: R. did not have a good night; he rests in the morning, Fidi goes to church, and then we all drive together via the pastry shop to Jenkins’s. From there to a late breakfast with our friends of London memory, the Schlesingers. A gay meeting, for R. finds the pretty wife very pleasant. In the evening Der Freischütz, a joy, a solace, fragrant as a forest. But one thing greatly astonishes R.: that the traditional manner of performing these works has been forgotten to such an extent that Ännchen did not even know the characteristic movements, with her apron, to the accompaniment of the clarinet. R. draws my attention to the use of the bass register of the oboe, also of the flute - all Weber’s own inventions. At the conclusion of the opera he is approached shyly, but enthusiastically, by Frl. von Zettwitz, who says she could not miss the opportunity of thanking him.
September 12, 1881	174	A tiring dentist visit sets a difficult tone for the day, and a missed rendezvous at the china collection irritates Wagner and casts a shadow over lunch. The afternoon walk to Loschwitz brightens things as they discover Weber's house still standing and Wagner recounts the boyhood scheme of sailing a homemade boat down the river to surprise his family. Returning home they find two young women waiting with flowers—daughters of a late Kreuzschule headmaster, devoted admirers—and the day ends gently with a farewell call on Frau Pusinelli.	Monday, September 12: R. has another appointment with Dr. Jenkins, which proves a great strain on him. Our missing each other at the china collection, where we had arranged to meet, makes him angry. Dismal meal. After that a walk to Loschwitz and Blasewitz. He is pleased to see that Weber’s house has been preserved, and he shows us the Ziegenbach, the stream on which he attempted to build himself a boat to sail to Dresden in, imagining the surprise of his family. We are pleased by the countryside, R. praising the way the river curves. How painful to hear that the Queen does not care for Pillnitz and is seldom there - R. observes that none of them cares for the people! When we arrive home we find two pretty girls waiting with flowers; in reply to R.’s inquiry, they say they are the daughters of the deceased headmaster of the Kreuzschule, and they admire R. so much! In the evening we go to see our friend Frau Pusinelli and say goodbye to her very affectionately.
September 13, 1881	184	The Dresden stay closes with practical business—bills and a final dental visit—before Wagner takes his son Fidi on a small tour of childhood landmarks, including a house where he spent many formative hours. At the station Frau Hartmann pays Wagner an extravagant compliment, prompting him to deflect with characteristic wit, declaring that he and Wagner alike are unfit to tie Shakespeare's or Beethoven's shoelaces, then adding that enthusiasm makes equals of everyone. Arriving in Leipzig that evening, they are met by Neumann and conductor Seidl, and a visit to the theater proves unremarkable.	Tuesday, September 13: Bills to pay! And a final appointment with Dr. Jenkins for R., after which he goes for a glass of beer with Fidi and shows him the Klepperbein house, in which he spent so much time as a child. (He also showed me the apothecary’s shop from which his mother received a bill for “mixed teas for little Richard.”) Departure at 2 o’clock; the Hartmanns at the station. When R. jokes with Frau H. about her showing so much feeling for a conductor, she replies that she does not bother herself with such insignificant people, but with Wagner, Shakespeare, Beethoven. He says, “Oh, we two are not fit to tie Shakespeare’s or Beethoven’s shoelaces.” And when she expresses delight over his “we,” R. says, “Enthusiasm makes equals of us all.” We arrive in Leipzig at 6 o’clock, Herr Neumann with the conductor Seidl at the station. R. calls the former “a rose exuding earnestness.” He goes for a drive with the children, and then we go to the theater, where Israel again predominates. Curious voices, above all. Benedix’s play Der Vetter seems rather clumsy.
September 14, 1881	121	The party returned to Bayreuth after an early morning departure, with Herr Neumann's payment of their tickets prompting much teasing from Richard. Though welcomed by children and friends, the homecoming was tempered by a chest spasm that struck Richard immediately upon arrival, and the evening's mood was dampened by a vexing letter from Herr Batz before company and conversation gradually lifted spirits.	Wednesday, September 14: Departure at 6 in the morning; Herr Neumann, whom R. later calls an Assyrian inscription restored to life, pays - curiously - for our tickets, and he has to listen to many jokes about it from R. We are welcomed at Neuenmarkt with a hailstorm. In Bayreuth, however, the children and our friends. Unfortunately R. immediately has a chest spasm! But at lunch he is cheerful. When someone mentions the Saxon royal family, he says, “They are all worse than just ghosts - they are the descendants of ghosts.” But a letter from Herr Batz vexes him greatly; he has to reply to it, and thus our evening has a subdued beginning; but spirits are gradually raised and news exchanged.
September 15, 1881	80	Cold weather set a disagreeable tone for the day, souring Richard's mood as he worked on his article and read aloud cheerful letters of acceptance from singers. He was reluctant to receive French visitors that evening, and the Wolzogens called to share news from their recent travels.	Thursday, September 15: R. slept well, but it is so cold that he is put out of humor by it; he busies himself with his article, and after lunch reads to us the very nice letters from singers accepting his invitation. In the evening he has to put on his blue robe, and in consequence he does not wish to receive the French people who send in their cards. The Wolzs visit us and tell us a few things about their journey.
September 16, 1881	147	Feeling unwell and musing on Constantinople and the future of the Bayreuther Blätter, Richard hosted a formal French Wagnerian couple, the Lascoux, who brought news from Munich and Paris. The evening grew burdensome for him—after playing the Tristan Prelude he found French conversation exhausting, slipped away without farewells, then returned to send off the guests with a cryptic classical quip they likely did not understand.	Friday, September 16: He feels indisposed, talks of Constantinople, then of the B. Bl. and the establishment of a committee which will continue his work here when he goes off and leaves this place permanently. At lunch we have M. and Mme Lascoux, very formal Wagnerites, who tell us a lot about Munich and also the prospects in Paris. In the evening he works on his article, and when I suggest that he dictate it, he says jokingly, “That’s no good with something that is superfluous.” Yesterday he said to Wolz., “We are both overhasty in our writing.” The Lascoux couple spend the evening with us. R. plays the Prelude to Tannhäuser. But he finds the French conversation afterward very onerous; he disappears, does not wish to say goodbye, then, however, follows the guests out, takes leave of them, calling them Isis and Osiris, which they will hardly have understood!
September 17, 1881	93	Conversation circled around the decline and possible revival of the Blätter, and Richard made pointed remarks about the growing presence of Jewish actors in the theater and their treatment of the German language. He finished his article that day, heard hopeful news about royal financing of the orchestra through Friend Gross, described his current work as "very bold," and the evening ended quietly over whist.	Saturday, September 17: The Blätter and its demise and rebirth are still keeping us occupied; R. comes to the subject of Jews as actors, the fact that in ’53 he could write that there were none, whereas now...! And the way they treated our language! Today he completes his article. Friend Gross, who has lunch with us, tells us about Herr v. Biirkel and says the latter now thinks that the King will after all finance the orchestra. R. talks to me about his work, describes it as “very bold.” In the evening we play whist.
September 18, 1881	140	Richard affectionately called Cosima his peacemaking "fair miller's wife" and wrote to the King about the Bayreuth orchestra and conducting plans. A drive into the countryside ended badly when a gust of wind brought on a chest spasm, leaving him longing for the warmth of Corfu, though the evening restored him somewhat as he found deep pleasure playing through Der Freischütz and the Venusberg music.	Sunday, September 18: Today R. calls me the fair miller’s wife, because I grind everything down into something good, restore equilibrium! God grant that I live up to that! R. writes to the King and reads some passages to me about the sketches, the orchestra, and its conductor. Toward midday I find him indisposed, he drinks some tea immediately before lunch; however, his mood improves during the meal. Afterward he reads to us the wine merchant’s letter, which he finds amusing. He arranges a drive to the pretty spot beyond the Fantaisie, but a wind is blowing as he is walking through the meadow, and he has a chest spasm. He thinks longingly of Corfu. In the evening he plays some pieces from Der Freischütz, which bring him great inner contentment, then parts of the Venusberg music, pleased that “it, too, is melody.”
September 19, 1881	128	Richard expressed renewed confidence that Parsifal would resonate with audiences, calling it the most remarkable thing he had ever created, and continued work on the score. He dismissed Thomas More's Utopia as intellectually inferior to ancient Greek thought, and in the evening listened approvingly to Stein's contribution for the Blätter, remarking with casual detachment that the journal could carry on as it pleased.	Monday, September 19: R. tells me for the second time that he believes Parsifal will please people, saying it is the most remarkable thing he has ever done. He works on the score, reads reports about Thomas More’s Utopia in the newspaper, thinks the book insipid: “Those ancient Greek fellows were much more advanced in their ideas,” he observes. In the morning he sends Fidi to me to announce that the weather is fine. We go for a walk together in the palace gardens, sitting down twice for a rest. In the evening Stein reads to us his letter for the B. Blätter, which R. thinks very good. When we are talking in the palace gardens about ways of changing the Blätter, R. says, “Let the ghost do what it likes.”
September 20, 1881	171	Over coffee Richard linked the Greek figure of Anteros to Parsifal, reflecting that the Greeks lacked any real concept of love as moderns understand it, while the news of President Garfield's death after his prolonged suffering left a somber impression. A business conference went smoothly despite Richard feeling ill beforehand, but London contract disputes annoyed him that evening, and a bat circling the room struck Cosima as a bad omen.	Tuesday, September 20: R. had a restful night, and he works. Over coffee, when our conversation turns to Eros and Anteros, scorned love, R. says that Anteros is Parsifal. He says the Greeks did not know love in our sense. The news of the death of good President Garfield, after a long struggle, makes a solemn impression on us; the fact is mentioned that he was of humble origin. At 5 o’clock R. has a conference; just before it he feels greatly indisposed, goes to sit in the garden. But the discussion goes smoothly, agreement is reached on advertisements, prices of seats, etc. We then drive to the Riedelsberg with our friends to fetch our children. R. expresses his wish to have a “strapontin,” as he calls a coupe, amused by the name of the little seat inside it. In the evening the contracts with London cause him vexation, he makes certain stipulations to Herr Francke and sends the contracts back. A bat flutters around us, which I find very ominous; R. drives it away.
September 21, 1881	246	Richard worked on his score while conversation turned to Liszt's self-contained life and his relationships, and to how men grow more helpless than women in old age. A visit to the theater to inspect the royal box and the workshop for the transformation scenery filled Richard with grateful admiration for the collective effort devoted to his artistic vision, and the evening closed with a reading from Scott's Woodstock after warm reflections on his first wife Minna.	Wednesday, September 21: R. busy on his score. Our expecting my father leads the conversation to his relationships and his life, in which we feel we are no more than an item. [The preceding sentence obliterated in ink by an unknown hand.] We again discuss the fact that in their later years men by themselves are much more helpless than women, citing M[ore] as an example. R. says, “Yes, if only because women like to show they are something in themselves-men do not need to.” We drive to the theater, inspect the construction of the royal box, on which the brother of our good foreman Grafe is now working. Then the workshop, in which the rollers for the transformation scenery are being planed. R. is much pleased by all this activity, all this effort in the service of an ideal aim, and he thinks of Brandt with gratitude and appreciation. Very foolish behavior on the part of the children, following the mildest of scoldings from him, makes me angry; but he is filled with feelings of having been unjust to them. And in the evening he sends to the Wolzs for Woodstock and reads aloud the scene following the search in the castle. Over coffee we talked a lot about Minna, acknowledging both her beauty and the fact that a correct instinct led R. to her: “In that way I was cut off from all acts of foolishness and thought only of my work.” He pities her for having married him.
September 22, 1881	90	A payment of 40,000 marks from Dr. Strecker arrived, prompting Richard to offer money to everyone around him in high spirits. Liszt arrived that afternoon looking far healthier than anticipated, and Richard warmly urged him to settle in Bayreuth permanently—though he compared his father-in-law's need for independence to another famously restless acquaintance.	Thursday, September 22: R. receives 40,000 marks from Dr. Strecker today and offers us all money! At 5 o’clock my father arrives; R., I, and everyone else at the station. He looks much better than we had anticipated; R. tries very cordially to persuade him to remain with us permanently, and concludes, “But you are exactly like Kohler-you must have your freedom.” (His describing the snuffbox I gave him on August 25 as the work of an amateur is for me another sign of that perspicacity I always find so astonishing in him.)
September 23, 1881	307	A cold, disagreeable day began with Richard being compelled to swear a legal affidavit, which he found distasteful, and a letter from Batz brought further irritation. The afternoon brightened with Liszt's comic performance of a Temperance Society parody set to a Norma melody, and after a drive to visit Gross the evening settled into whist and Woodstock, during which Richard sharpened his critique of Scott's romanticized treatment of the Stuarts versus Cromwell—and letters pressing him about Tristan drew exasperated exclamations that he had long since moved beyond it.	Friday, September 23: R. had a good night, but he feels indisposed, and the cold is severe. In the morning he has to swear an affidavit for Herr Fürstner, much to his displeasure, and we discuss the dismal necessity over lunch. Then we come to the subject of vegetarianism, and my father amuses us greatly by singing to us in English the words the Temperance Society sings to the melody from Norma: “We belong, we belong, we belong to the Temperance, the Temperance Society, to the Temperance Society!” [Added four pages later but referred back to this point: “Over coffee R. talks about the American war. ‘Very well,’ he says, ‘one says all these things about America’ (he himself, observing the arrogant young Jenkins, had said, ‘Possible that such people enjoy this world, but now I know why I do not enjoy it’) ‘and that we have nothing in common with it; but all the same this war is the only one to have been waged for the sake of humanity and an idea.’ My father listens attentively to his ensuing description, something he notices with pleasure.”] A letter from Batz brings vexation; R. and I drive to see friend Gross. He replies to Batz. In the evening we play whist, but he soon goes off to read Woodstock, in which he is struck by many weaknesses in description. He said recently that W. Scott was like Gobineau; the legitimate rulers-in this case the Stuarts-could do whatever they wished and still remain divine, whereas someone like Cromwell, however fairly treated, was nevertheless presented as a unique curiosity. At midday, as Wolz. is going off to see my father, he throws him a 50-pfennig piece through the window! Letters about Tristan wring from him angry exclamations that his thoughts are now elsewhere-do these people imagine that one never moves on from such things?
September 24, 1881	210	Improved weather and steady work on the proofs of his article gave the day a promising start, though Richard failed in a playful attempt to surprise Cosima and Liszt in Joukowsky's studio. The evening then soured into a tense, disorderly scene involving a drunken servant, awkward music-making, and an upsetting exchange with Forges that sent the guests away uneasy. What restored Cosima was overhearing Richard turn back to the practical consolation of his unfinished score, after which the two of them spoke intimately and found some relief together.	Saturday, September 24: The weather has taken a turn for the better, the barometer has risen. R. works on the proofs of his article, and he tries to surprise my father and me in Jouk.’s studio, but he misses us. The Wolzs lunch with us; that always provides some good etymological conversation between him and R., but at table he is already somewhat out of humor. Then in the evening all sorts of things arise-our manservant drunk, for R. bad luck at cards, which he then abandons, but above all, I fear, the Mephisto-Walzer, played by my father, along with a conversation with Forges while the rest of us are playing whist-quite an appalling atmosphere. He flares up, and everybody goes away in some alarm. I stand at the top of his spiral staircase listening to him in order to decide what to do, and to my joy I hear him say: “Still so-and-so many pages to do! I shall be glad when I have finished my score.” I then go to him, and together we pour out our hearts over, oh, so many things, among which the tête-à-tête with Forges and the tipsy Georg with the guitar (Pepino had been singing) provide the moments of light relief. (Before supper I inspected a strapontin.)
September 25, 1881	187	After a poor night and annoyance over a sloppy newspaper description of Joukowsky's costumes, Richard worked on despite feeling unable to concentrate. Lunch with the mayor's family passed well, and the arrival of the new strapontin carriage delighted him so much that he decided to keep it partly to support the local craftsman who had built it on speculation. The day ended more cheerfully with whist and teasing conversation, though Richard still felt the absence of Forges from the gathering.	Sunday, September 25: But R. did not have a good night. In the newspaper is a description of the Jouk. costumes, containing many mistakes; it is by F. Muncker, and for R. this is yet another proof of the hasty way in which things are always done nowadays. He works, complaining of lack of concentration. At lunch we have the mayor’s family; it all goes quite well, and at half past four the strapontin arrives! R. and I ride in it together, everything amuses him, even the way the people stare, the coachman, the horses, and the weather is fine too. I had been offered the carriage just for inspection, but he wants to keep it, if only for the reason that a man here built it at his own risk, and who will otherwise support him? In the evening we have a merry whist party (I, unfortunately, am never with him!); but he withdraws and just looks on, constantly exclaiming, “Forges is missing-something is missing!” To my father he exclaims, “If you had such a nice house, we should visit you much more often - or such a wife!”
September 26, 1881	261	Richard reflected that he now longed above all for tranquility in art, preferring scenes of stillness and ritual to the emotional storms that had driven Tristan and even parts of Parsifal. During a drive he mused on coal, climate, and the distortions civilization imposes on nature, laughing over geese reduced from swimmers and fliers to waddling domestic creatures. Judith Gautier's visit gave the evening an uneasy tone, but Richard eventually turned from social discomfort to reading aloud from material for Die Sieger.	Monday, September 26: “All I care for now is tranquillity. Tristan came storming along and gave rise to Siegfried, too, but now I find emotional scenes repugnant, and it is something which disturbs me in Parsifal as well; all I want to do now are things like the scene in Die Walküre where she goes to fetch the water, or the scene in the 3rd act of Parsifal (anointing and baptism).” At lunch our friend Judith Gautier; I do not yet know whether this is pleasing to R., or just embarrassing, as he says. He goes for a drive with me in the direction of Heinrichsreuth, talking of when coal was first discovered, and whether one could hope a day would come when people no longer went down mines - an American jungle would surely suffice to keep the world supplied with fuel. But, above all, the climate - he keeps coming back to that. Then, seeing some geese, he laughs loudly: “They are the victims of civilization, so clearly designed for swimming and flying, and now forced by human beings to waddle.” Strange evening with Mme Gautier - when the others sit down to a game of whist, R. says, “This is Forges all over again!” My feelings are strange; I leave the room. When I return, R. is reading aloud his material for Die Sieger from Burnouf. For me Loldi, now returned, is everything today - indeed, all the children, who show me the point of living. What do children ever owe to their parents, compared with what they give to their parents?
September 27, 1881	507	The day centered on a painful but clarifying conversation between Richard and Cosima about Judith Gautier's presence in the house, ending in reconciliation but also in Richard's bleak reflections on death and the strains of life. He forgot Cosima's name day, regretted it, and moved restlessly between tenderness, self-reproach, philosophical wit, and work on Parsifal, where he revised a passage he thought too close to Meyerbeer. The evening grew theatrical when Judith appeared in striking dress and Richard played at the piano, to the amazement of the children and guests.	Tuesday, September 27: Saint Cosmas! Yesterday I desisted from responding to R.’s remarks about Judith’s character, which he finds embarrassing; instead, I kept bringing the conversation back to the children. He is sad today about that, weeps, and says that, if anything were to come between us, it would be all over with him; I seek to explain to him in all mildness the feeling which makes me so intensely aware of this strange woman in our house that yesterday I had to leave the room for a moment. We part in good spirits, I, blissful that I have been able to account for something that could so easily have been presented in the wrong way. Even before I went to my bath, he appeared in my room: “What shall we make our coffin of? Which do you want - lead or wood? For until death comes this nonsense will never cease - death is all that remains to us.” I arrange my little gifts and lay them in his room while he is dressing. He then comes to me: “Again I have forgotten your name day! Oh, yes, you live for me more than I do for you, and that explains why I get so little joy from my work.” Then he comes in with the atlas and shows me the journey Gobineau made in two months. When I go to greet him as he is working on his score, he observes, “Art and love don’t go together,” but he is using the new snuffbox with much pleasure. At lunch he praises my father for having given me Cosmas, the healer, as my guardian angel. But then he comes to Faust and the thousand antics which disfigure life - how well Goethe expressed that! - and he tells Stein about the coffin, whereupon Stein reminds him that in Naples he wished to be lying on his deathbed. Mention is made of cuttlefish and the way they save their lives by disappearing, and R. says, “That’s what God did after creating the world - He disappeared.” Previously he said to my father, “You invented me, and then you were obliged to push your wares.” We drive with Loldi along the avenue from the Hermitage to the theater and then home, much contented. Then he works and pastes over two bars in Parsifal’s reply to Kundry which he felt to be Meyerbeerish - one works toward something like grace and then does not know how to handle it. At supper he comes to the subject of vivisection and says, “Our attitude toward animals is so simple, we find it so easy to be kind to them, whereas toward other human beings it is so complicated and difficult; that would be a way of finding it.” When I come downstairs, I discover R. at the piano and our friend Judith in rich, rather revealing finery: “I was taken by surprise,” he tells me; he plays the Prelude and later some other things. Much amazement among the children and demonstrations verging on the comical from our friends!
September 28, 1881	151	Richard spent the day denouncing falseness in personal relations and politics, feeling that Liszt's recent waltz had somehow altered the innocence of their circle. He still worked intensely on the score, even refining an orchestral detail, and a drive with Cosima briefly restored his sense that all was well when they were alone together. Supper and whist remained lively thanks to Judith and Eva, but his temper flared again over the treatment of the Jaegers.	Wednesday, September 28: R. complains loudly that everything, everything is a lie! He feels, for instance, that since my father played the waltz, the innocence of our relationships has vanished. “The Prussian state also consists of lies, of which they are unaware.” He works both morning and afternoon and tells us that he has inserted a solo violin in place of a clarinet at the words “so schüttelte sie die Locken.” At lunch we have, besides our friend Judith, the poor Jagers. R. and I drive out to Mistelbach, and he feels that all is well when we are together. In the evening he plays whist; the beautiful Judith sits down beside him and then declares that she wishes to play with him, and the group (Lusch with my father) makes a charming and merry picture. Eva causes much amusement with her talent for mimicry. But an explosion against Porges on account of the Jagers.
September 29, 1881	361	A newspaper report about a diamond boom in America prompted Richard to brood on how money, meant only as a symbol of exchange, had come to generate whole forms of life. He continued revising his article but returned from a walk with chest pains, and although a country drive pleased him, his agitation over social company and larger cultural anxieties never fully eased. By evening the doctor pronounced the pain rheumatic, while Cosima reflected on Richard's uncanny habit of wounding others precisely when his own inner unrest was greatest.	Thursday, September 29: R. reads in the newspaper that the discovery of a diamond mine in America has led to the building of a complete town in the shortest possible time: “That shows what people are when metal, which was intended only as a symbol, a means of facilitating barter, becomes eo ipso a means of creating life.” R. works, goes through the 2nd proof of his article, and takes it to Wolz. He returns from his little walk with a chest spasm. At lunch Judith and her friend Herr Benediktus - Israel; R.’s remark about the smooth, somewhat oily voice of the Israelite. Fine weather - for R. and me a drive along the pretty highway to Konnersreuth. Much pleasure in the countryside; R. somewhat beside himself over the growing numbers of Israel. In the evening he feels pains in his side and sends for the doctors. At supper he is still cheerful; he tells the story of M. Jadin, in whose house in Meudon was nothing but crapauds and araignées [“toads and spiders”]. But he is vexed at having to speak French and he soon withdraws, after the doctor has seen him, diagnosed his trouble as rheumatism, and prescribed a compress. “Ma chère enthousiaste, prenez pitié de moi” [“My dear devotee, have pity on me”], he says to Judith, as he takes leave of her and makes his excuses. During our walk we discussed that curious and daemonic habit of his of wounding people without the slightest evil intent; today, for example, in the disquiet of his restless mood, he said that if he were king, he would distribute ministries for this and that, and, turning to Joukowsky, he says, “A vous celui de la chétiveté” [“to you that of puniness”]. Since Jouk. is very puny - and that is also the reason why his talent can never amount to much - he was very hurt, until I explained to him that it is always a sign of R.’s inner disquiet when he sticks out his claws in this way, though he has a daemonic talent for hitting unerringly on one’s weak point. Today he wrote, along with my father, to the wine merchant Feldheim.
September 30, 1881	166	Confined to bed by severe rheumatic pain and treated with leeches he jokingly dubbed the Three Graces, Richard endured the day with a mix of discomfort and humor. He complained that his score perversely grew longer the more he worked on it, while Cosima stayed close, reread his article with devotion, and shared a day of quiet companionship. His reading in Trois ans en Asie and the doctor's calm manner helped keep the household from alarm despite the persistent pain.	Friday, September 30: R. had a restless night; the doctor’s treatment has only made things worse. Three leeches are applied - R. calls them the Three Graces - and he has to stay in bed. He complains that his score is shagreen in reverse - the more he works on it, the longer it becomes. I remain upstairs, and since the doctor shows no anxiety, I return to my wonted mood. “This is what I love - to be by myself with you.” He: “And I by myself for you.” I read his article over and over again and tell him of my heavenly delight in it. He reads Trois ans en Asie with much enjoyment, only deploring the remarks in favor of the Catholic church. Thus do we spend the day; only in the evening he sends me to my father, and I play whist with him and our friends. The doctor came in the course of the day, and he remains unperturbed, although the rheumatic pains are severe.
No diary entries found.