Cosima's Diaries

Monday, January 1:

R. felt yesterday that one should not exchange good wishes at the New Year but only on birthdays, but he is not against our little ceremony at the Princess's house, and although he has spasms, he comes there himself later.

At lunch he is somewhat vexed: he wants to go to the theater, where [Goldoni's] Le Baruffe Chiozzotte is being done, a play about which he has often talked; my father asks to be allowed to stay at home, where Lusch and Jouk. can keep him company. R. is annoyed that we do not all go, but the theater soon cheers him up, and we return home thoroughly pleased. Both play and acting delighted us.

Afterward we read Goethe's description of the play in his Italian Journey and find it rather trivial.

Tuesday, January 2:

R. had a good night; bright sunshine. I write some letters, but my right eye suddenly develops a black ring, and I have to give up writing and reading. I go out with R.; he tells me a lot about the history of the Persians, with unstinted admiration. I show him the Moretto picture, which he thinks is one of the finest ever painted. We return home in very good spirits.

At lunch, accusing himself of possessing a bad character, he says, "With me one has to show foresight and forbearance." Then he makes a lot of jokes about civil marriages and says to my father, "You mean several marriages." The news that friend Feustel's eldest son has shot himself leads to solemn conversations.

In the evening the two of us are alone with Jouk. R. talks about the Renaissance and reads various things about Venice in Goethe's Italian Journey, for which he does not much care. Before that he read to us from the newspaper a court case involving Jews, expressing astonishment that such language can be spoken in our country.

Wednesday, January 3:

R. had quite a good night, and he writes some letters — to Fritz Brandt and various singers; yesterday he wrote to Levi. Today he receives from the latter a deeply serious letter which makes the best of impressions on him. But unfortunately the impression my father makes on him when R. visits him in the mornings is a very bad one! And there is much confusion at lunch; my father also believes for a moment that we are smiling at his expense, which greatly pains me.

R. and I go out in the afternoon; he is worried about his health and that his spasms do not let up. Then we pay a call on our landlords (the Della Grazias), who look exactly like Styrian aristocrats; R. views this as proof that the aristocracy everywhere is of Germanic origin.

Chat in the evening; my father is not there, he joins us later, calls for beer [the last three words obliterated in ink by an unknown hand], and R.'s indignation over this leads, alas, to a little argument between us!

Thursday, January 4:

R. slept well, and my consultation with the eye specialist is reassuring, which I tell R. with relief. He frequently calls me into his room to tell me various things from the history of the Persians, the intellectual quality of which he finds incomparable. He writes splendidly to Feustel (I have his letter copied), and at lunch — since news of the suicide of Count Wimpfen has also been received — we discuss this subject. R. cites the case of Nerva (I think he means Otho) as a suicide committed for the sake of others; my father will not accept this, and this greatly annoys R., who complains of what he calls my father's "turbulent somnolence" [the last ten words obliterated in ink by an unknown hand]. On top of this, he feels constricted by the reduction in our living space, and this makes everything seem disagreeable to him!

In the meantime Marie Donhoff puts in an appearance, charming and friendly; even R. finds her pleasant, though he is usually harsh in his judgement against her, and he recently said, "What sort of a human being is that, who thinks society more important than anything else?" She wins him over by talking very earnestly about Malwida's influence on her mother in persuading her to regard things from the standpoint of ideals.

In the evening R. and I are alone together, all the rest at Princess H.'s. We talk as we always do when we are alone. Gob.'s ideas — on the scholars' conception of the Temple and Jerusalem, his statement about the Greek philosophers ("they were artists") — provide plenty of material. Then R. comes back to Carlyle's idea about colonies and answers it to the effect that things which have not yet discovered their roots cannot perhaps be described as old. Then he tells me that he does not intend to write his article about male and female; at the most he will indicate his thoughts on the subject as opportunity arises. Unfortunately, however, his attitude toward my father is becoming increasingly difficult and incensed!

Friday, January 5:

R. had a good night; he talked about me in his sleep. In the morning he is still upset about my father [this sentence obliterated in ink by an unknown hand]. Lusch tells us about a recitation of [Bürger's] Lenore. Yesterday R. said how repugnant he finds entertainments of this sort; one cannot help being appalled by some other person, and yet one can say nothing.

We ride together home. Makart's portrait of the Countess [Donhoff?] has been put on display in our apartment — something R. finds distasteful. But our friend herself is received by him in a very friendly fashion; he exclaims to the children at lunch that, since they always imitate everybody, they should imitate the Countess! He speaks very earnestly to Herr Hausburg about curing himself of the habit of grinning.

In the evening, while the others are playing whist, we are alone with Marie; she tells us her situation, R. responds by describing our fate to her. He speaks the following beautiful words: "It took Nature a very long time to produce passion; this is what can lead one to the heights; music is its transfiguration, is, alone among all the arts, directly connected with it." After and during this expansive conversation R. is infinitely kind toward me, lovingly animated. At supper, sitting opposite me, he cries out, "I love you!"

Today he was not at all pleased by having a number of society people come to our home at my father's invitation to inspect Makart's picture. He reads to me a report of floods on the Rhine; the appeal ends with the statement that there is a shortage of money, which he finds terrible — money to rescue the victims of the flooding!

Saturday, January 6:

R. slept well; at breakfast the presence of our friend leads the conversation to all kinds of worldly matters, our friend Mimi, etc. Around lunchtime we go out for a walk, but the weather is raw; R. takes me to see a relief which he has discovered on a traghetto, there we take a gondola and return home, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

A very understanding letter from Herr Scaria, advising him to engage Siehr, gives him pleasure. (Yesterday a telegram from Herr Neumann came, announcing that he is sending 10,000 francs.) But at lunch R. is very serious; I think his sympathy for our friend is somewhat exhausted; he is taciturn, and it falls to me to keep the conversation going. In the afternoon and evening he is indisposed. My father's manners and customs offend him; he says he is just like King Lear, his acquaintances the hundred knights, and his arrangements the Learisms [this sentence obliterated in ink by an unknown hand].

This evening we are alone together; we talk first about Gambetta's death, which R. holds to be France's good fortune rather than otherwise, then about the history of the Persians, which reflects R.'s presentiments. Finally — since Eva has started it — he reads parts of [Shakespeare's] All's Well That Ends Well to me.

During the night I hear him say, half-asleep, half-awake, "King Lear, horrible man," but to me, "I care about you, you are the best of all."

(In our evening conversation yesterday the Countess spoke about the performances in Vienna and praised them very highly, particularly Winkelmann, Scaria, and Materna. R. then talks about the subjects of his works, calling Lohengrin the saddest of them all; he also tells us about Luttichau's suggestion that Tannhäuser should be pardoned in Rome and should marry Elisabeth.)

Sunday, January 7:

In the morning we come — I cannot remember how — to the subject of Gambetta; we recall Die Kapitulation and the fact that Nietzsche, for instance, had no understanding of it at all. R. says it is a complete lack of imagination which hinders understanding. Lusch comes to breakfast and tells us about the soirée.

Around lunchtime I go with R. to Reithmeyer's bank, where R. happily collects some money from his Königsberg royalties. Our friend Marie eats with us; R. is more taciturn than otherwise and in the afternoon in an ill-humour. But by the evening he is cheerful again, bubbling over with wit; when someone mentions the Jews, he says, "Oh, yes, our German culture would be completely icebound if it were not for this Schmierocco!" And many similar things. Since my father goes out, we decide on a reading, and R. reads Twelfth Night to us in his splendid manner.

Monday, January 8:

Hans's birthday — on which day it is given to me to learn that he has been holding a rehearsal! R. had a good night; he is cheerful and comes frequently to my room during the morning to read me bits of his letter to Levi. Our lunch passes without the little Countess, who is indisposed. We visit her, first I alone, then R. comes to fetch me, and, friendly though he is toward the charming lady, the impression all her elegance in bed makes on him is a very dismal one! And so these days bear the stamp of sadness!

While my father is playing whist, R. reads King Lear to me and Eva — the scene in which Kent is put in the stocks — and we come to the conclusion that one ought to read Shakespeare scene by scene, for otherwise one never really gets to know him. My father and the others come in unnoticed to listen, which surprises and pleases R.

In recent days R.'s face has had a wonderful radiance, and when his eyes fell on me, I felt "gladness and woe in one." Today I felt it indescribably!

Tuesday, January 9:

R. slept well, but he is in a disturbed state of mind, and I must feel glad that our friend stays away! Everything upsets him. He has a spasm in the morning and at lunch is all but silent. He starts a letter to the King.

In the afternoon he goes out; I wait in the antechamber to greet him, but he is in an ill-humour, and in the evening this turns into anger. My father's manners and customs, the whist table, the constriction of our living space, all the disturbance arising from his visit — this makes him furious, and long, long after it is past he gives way to his anger, which I can only assuage by suffering with him in silence!

As a curiosity I might note down that R. considers the black eyes and hair of our friend to be unwomanly.

Wednesday, January 10:

R. slept tolerably well and is very kind toward me; he thinks I am looking worn out and says it is impossible for me to regain my strength as long as he is the way he is. When I tell him that even to suffer with him is happiness, and that if in words and manners he prefers me to others, this is something I owe entirely to him — such lovely feelings take possession of us that they give me wings to surmount the day's troubles!

These troubles consist of R.'s health, his spasms, and his vexation — about the various things from which he has to dissuade the King, for instance; he says that in his rage he has added only one sentence to the letter during the whole afternoon. He is also oppressed by the smallness of the rooms; he misses books and music, but when I suggest we return to Wahnfried, he cannot make up his mind to do so.

Around 6 o'clock my father plays to us the Andante from the A Major Symphony and the Scherzo Allegretto from the F Major; twice during the latter R. comes in dancing, which makes Fidi laugh a great deal. At supper afterward he is in very good spirits, and when there is talk of Oberdank and bomb-throwing, he reproaches our friend with also having thrown bombs; when she protests, he says to her, "Oh, yes, you did, you are a bonbonnière!" Dr. Kurz, recommended by Jouk., comes in the evening; he describes R.'s complaint as a stomach neuralgia and says it is a good sign that his spasms take place mainly before and not after mealtimes.

When we are alone, R. criticizes the broad tempo in which my father took the Andante of the A Major; he calls this a failure to appreciate the character of the piece. He then tells me he has a number of themes and would like to write a symphony, but wonders how he will find the tranquillity for it. (A few evenings ago, while in bed, he sang to me the theme of a "vigorous and warlike funeral march.") Today we thought lovingly of Friederike Meyer.

Thursday, January 11:

I hear R. saying in his dreams: "If He created me, who asked Him to? And if I am made in His image, the question remains whether I am pleased about that."

Today R. finishes his letter to the King; I take our friend to the station. On my return home, I find R. very annoyed by news of a visit from friend Gross; he sends a telegram asking him to wait to see what effect his letter has. Lunch is lively and cheerful; among other things, we talk of Mme Viardot, and R. relates his experiences with this singer. R. has had a nice letter from Herr Siehr, to whom he sent the very understanding one from Herr Scaria. In the afternoon he pays a visit to my father, and proposes to him that he remain with us. There was a report in a newspaper to the effect that we were living in a sumptuously furnished first-floor apartment, whereas my father had only a modestly equipped one on the mezzanine floor; this annoys R.

In the evening we are alone, R. and I; before going off with the younger girls to Malipiero's, Siegfried reads to us the first scenes of his comedy, Die Lügner! We take delight in the boy, he is good-looking and talented, and R. observes that the Gotthard was good for him.

Talking of earlier attachments, R. says he is ashamed of them all. When I tell him that one should never be ashamed of such generous illusions, he says, "I seldom allowed any free speaking — if there had been free speaking, it would certainly not have been very nice." When we are alone together, we read Hamlet (the scene with Polonius, the King, and the Queen, then Hamlet and Ophelia, Hamlet with Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, etc., up to the players' prologue) with ever-increasing astonishment and emotion; we are indeed carried right out of ourselves, and I feel as if Richard, Hamlet, and Shakespeare have become one, as if I can comprehend the one only through the other, as if Hamlet could never be understood except with R.'s voice, R.'s character except with Shakespeare's genius, and neither except through this creation of Hamlet. The goodness of Hamlet's veracity — how could I feel this so deeply if I had not experienced it through R.?

Friday, January 12:

R.'s spasms start today first thing in the morning and last for more than two hours! He does not eat with us — in fact not at all. Dr. Keppler comes at last at 5 o'clock and proposes massage, which he begins at once, promising R. alleviation within a month! R. is greatly encouraged by this, whereas I, alas! He tells me that when I go to see him he has to ask me to leave, yet when I am gone he is sorry that I am not there!

In the evening whist is played, but there is also a discussion about our friend Jouk.'s impending departure to attend the centennial celebrations for his father. We persuade him — though sorrowfully — to undertake the journey.

Saturday, January 13:

R.'s night was a good one, and today he is massaged twice. Much else besides. Above all, the arrival of our friend Gross, who did not receive R.'s telegram until Kufstein. A request has come from Munich (on account of the exposition) that we give only ten performances this year, and these in July. R. is at first very annoyed, but then he gives way, though not before saying that the best thing would be to give it up entirely — though he then thinks of the children and feels one ought to set them an example of constancy. At 2 o'clock my father takes his departure; R. claims frequently to have discerned in him a mood of sadness about himself. In connection with my father's life, R. wonders what would have become of him if things had continued as they were in Vienna (1863). Impossible to imagine.

Earlier we celebrated the birthday of our good Paul [Joukowsky]; R. makes a speech, and in the evening he plays a march theme, which he then writes down for him. When we are left alone, he talks of Gobineau's interpretation of Alexander's personality, which exactly matches his own (R.'s).

And then later, when he is in his room, I hear him playing softly on the piano; the hovering forms draw close again. Yesterday he said that his symphonies would be a melody spun out in a single movement, and today he frequently plays a melody of his own which has come into his mind, in the manner of an English folk song.

Sunday, January 14:

R. had a good night, and I believe that massage is really doing him good, even if it causes a little disruption — e.g., a very late breakfast. He writes letters to singers (Materna) and to Heckel. A letter from Lenbach announcing a visit causes R. to pull my leg about my enthusiasm for this artist, and when I protest he says, "When one has someone like you to tease, one doesn't often let the chance slip." Sirocco storm, no outing possible.

Chat in the evening, comically enlivened by a little incident: R., feeling prejudiced against Dr. Keppler, had engaged a Dr. Kurz, whose prescriptions did not, however, appeal to him, and he then sent for Dr. Keppler. Now the doctor, who was engaged to come three times a week, turns up, and R. falls, as he puts it, "into his jaws." We extricate him, and have to laugh a lot over these complications!

R. sits down at the piano and improvises — lovely melodies which, as he tells us, are always piling up inside him. I tell him the fact that these blossoms are now sprouting within him is the reward for his collected outlook! "This is how we shall be," he says after playing. "Yes, this is how we shall sound," I reply to him.

I do not remember how we came to speak of the practice of summoning a priest to one's deathbed; I said that, though I can well see how life might drive us to seek this aid, I cannot understand why dying people are so reluctant to be absolutely on their own — even someone like Marie Muchanoff, for example, who died with such dignity, admitted a priest to her bedside. R. feels that the fear of hellfire is responsible.

Monday, January 15:

More massage for R., and afterward unpleasant feelings arising from a letter to me from Countess La Tour; we feel, R. and I, that even she did not really understand her friend. For the first time in many days we go for a walk; I go into Saint Mark's while R. does some shopping, then we meet at Lavena's.

At lunch we resume our familiar conversations — today, for example, about Italian church music, and we seek to explain why my father has entirely lost his appreciation for it. R. recalls the fine impression Leo's Miserere made on him in Naples, and he deplores the simplicity — of a completely different kind — of church compositions today.

In the afternoon we take a second walk to the Square. I call on Princess H. with Lusch; we miss each other and do not arrive home until 8 o'clock. R. is worried and therefore justifiably cross with us; my sincere apologies pacify him, but unfortunately Lusch takes a lightheartedly defiant attitude, which causes me great concern. Then there is talk of the family, of the discovery. I ask what that is, and R. plays a pompous, funereal intrada. This performance inevitably arouses hearty laughter.

In the evening our conversation primarily concerns fame, whether it is desirable; friend Jouk. observes that it gives people absolute freedom, but R. and I cannot bring ourselves to see any great value in it. Then we talk about my father — what his real inner feelings may be. R. says he cannot understand why, when he got to know my brother, he did not give up everything in order to live with him. Much talk about my brother and my sister. (Today R. read friend Wolzogen's lecture and was very pleased with it.)

Tuesday, January 16:

R. dreamed his old dream — that he had offended me, that I wished to leave him, that he then wanted to starve himself to death. A consultation with Dr. Keppler reveals that my heartbeat is the strongest imaginable, and since he is also completely satisfied with R.'s condition, we joke at breakfast that neither of us will ever die! It is raining again, consequently no outing. R. reads Dr. Forster's pamphlet, in order, as he says, to steel himself for his preface to Stein's book.

At lunch he talks about Wolzogen's lecture and says he would have more doubts about its value if he saw anything of significance on the other — the enemy — side; but there is nothing there, and so he is pleased with these announcements and with these supporters of his side. As I am playing with Stiefel, his little hare, he says, "He is splendid, the symbol of everything which should arouse our pity; and that's what the German Emperor shoots at!" In the course of the day he observes what a terrible thing this military setup is — nowhere in the world has there been anything like it before.

Since I am slowly getting on with Tolstoy's novel, we talk about Napoleon and the strange admiration he inspired in his contemporaries. I cannot remember how we came to talk about the Reformation and the ensuing state of the Catholic church. When I mention Saint Francis of Sales, R. says he has no confidence in these latter-day French saints with their elegant robes — at any rate, he cannot imagine them. He writes today to friend Sulzer about the history of the Persians, having recalled that Sulzer expressed views about the Persians similar to Gob.'s.

In the evening he plays the very detailed "Harlequin" improvisation, with "Du lieber Augustin" at the end! Death is now dancing with Harlequin! And late in the evening he reads the first two conversations between Faust and Mephisto with unutterable admiration, joy, and delight: "That is German," he says. Shakespeare shows us the world as it is; Goethe shows a free spirit's playfulness with it.

Wednesday, January 17:

R. tells me that when he woke up during the night, he thought once more about the conjuration of the poodle in Faust, with increased admiration. Today he reads B. Forster's little pamphlet, noting that some authors just throw out ideas — as he does about Bach and the German language — but that others make something firm and inalienable out of it. He is also pleased with some, e.g., that the stronghold of Valhalla has turned into the Temple of the Grail.

Since the sun is shining, we ride in an open gondola via the Cannaregio into the open sea, and from there to the Rialto, where we get out. Since R. was on the verge of a spasm, he would have found the walk home difficult if he had not been distracted by everything he saw along the way — two men, for example, talking to each other, one of them standing motionless wearing a large round hat, a cycling cape, around his waist an apron of blue rags stitched together, black-bearded; the other gray, beardless, with a yellow-brown jacket, trousers, and cap, violently gesticulating. Animals form the main topic of our lunchtime conversation.

As we turned into the Cannaregio in our gondola, we wondered why the Germans made the sun feminine. "That is a tremendous compliment to the female character," R. says. "They regarded the moon as a footpad, stealing around all night by himself." He is indisposed today and has no massage. Dr. Keppler provides him with food for thought; he finds him quite pleasant but feels he has no eyes in his head — there are people who are just specialists, he says, otherwise not human beings at all.

Jouk. has brought me his father's biography in connection with the jubilee; I get Loldi to read it to me. R. comes in and says he could have spent a long time watching us both, mother and daughter. Over coffee we listen to Lusch and Jouk. telling various stories about society life. R. exclaims, "Why is it always women who get talked about? Never men!"

He plays the piano in the evening (yesterday, something from Die Walküre and the introduction to the third act of Die Meistersinger, vexed with both the piano and his own clumsiness). I recall that music usually seems to produce ill-humour or irritability in him, and I speak to him about it, pointing out how much more tranquil his mood is when he has been occupying himself with books. He says I am talking in a casual tone about something of great importance, but I am right; then he pleases me by declaring that he will be quite satisfied with the ten performances. Today he goes so far as to ask himself whether the whole thing should not be given up entirely and he should instead try to make as much money as possible, so that we could live independently! (He feels that Herr Neumann will probably be obliged to give up, too, and he wonders whether in the present circumstances V. & B. will pay him.)

Then he goes through our disloyal friendships — Nietzsche, Gersdorff — and feels we should be downright ashamed of not having been able to keep a better grip on them. And, no doubt telling himself inwardly that they were not people of his sort anyway, he sings, "Cilie! There's a huge mask-thing in your bed!"

At the recent concert in which the Tannhäuser Overture was played, the programme compared it — as a mark of the highest praise — to the Guillaume Tell Overture; this produces from R. the remark that everything the Italians, Rossini in particular, provide in the way of ensembles, choruses, etc., is terribly vulgar, but that is not so with the French, and he agrees with me when I say that the French are more civilized. We end the evening with scenes from [Schiller's] Don Carlos, the end of the first and beginning of the second acts, and R. says it is a joy to observe all the subtleties and master strokes in these youthful works.

Thursday, January 18:

R. dreamed that Minna saw him weeping and that she was overjoyed — thinking it was on her account — and made such a clatter with the coffee machine that he thought she had gone mad. Then that we were both climbing a snow-covered mountain and had Rus with us on a lead!

The massage today is very late; with it came sunshine, so that R. thinks it is warm and has all the fur coverings removed — we all feel frozen. Our mood at lunch is as a result full of vexation, and more than once tears come to my eyes! R. is restored by quite a long sleep in the afternoon, and we stroll happily through our large suite, which he is delighted to have got back again. In the evening he has another massage, and it really does seem to do him good.

After supper he continues reading Don Carlos to us; he says that formerly he had overestimated its maturity, but now he takes delight in its splendid features. He describes King Philip's soliloquy as Shakespearean, and finds Don Carlos's excitement when he thinks the Queen has sent for him quite unique. Then he plays the opening theme (horns) of the Der Freischütz Overture; when we express our pleasure, he says, "Yes, what that meant to me!"

Friday, January 19:

He slept well and is in such a merry mood that the doctor is unable to massage him for a while. He told him that the stomach tube was an invasion of his personal rights! At lunch we chat contentedly, sharing memories of Prince Georg. Around 1 o'clock he goes to call on "the princes" — this stems from our meeting Count Bardi yesterday and not recognizing him; R. went after him to apologize and then announced his visit. He finds, as he tells me, two charming Austrians, with whom he jokes. We then take our walk in the botanical gardens.

Over coffee, L'Italie brings us, to our astonishment, all kinds of news from France — Prince Napoleon arrested in consequence of a manifesto. This evokes a lively response in us, since we had just been talking at lunch about that terrible 2nd of December and the admiration for Napoleon III it aroused in the kings of the world. (The fact that hunts are preceded by hymn singing is also discussed.) R. talks to the doctor about vegetarianism and deplores the stupidity of vegetarians who despise milk, which is after all the food Nature gave us.

In the afternoon we ride to the Piazzetta, R. and I, and delight in Venice in the moonlight. In the evening he continues reading Don Carlos to us; we end with the scene between Marquis Posa and Carlos in the fourth act. R. is delighted with the slim and free figure of the Marquis, and, when I say to him that I believe these things, now all but ridiculed, will still grow in people's estimation, he says: "Of course. It is Aryan ideality, and it is we who have produced it." Then he plays the beginning of the Ninth! He compares it to an improvisation and says: "Such sublime naïveté! How long it takes for one to reach this stage! In the early symphonies he still has scaffolding around him."

Saturday, January 20:

Our breakfast brings up the subject of the children's life — whether one can and should cut them right off from the community, whether we are not asking too much of them in our isolation. Eva, for example, is curiously irritable, and the doctor has forbidden reading material such as Don Carlos. A difficulty which I leave to my good star!

We go out; R. feels run down, he goes into Lavena's, while I enter Saint Mark's and feel as if I am swimming in gold. On our way home he tells me his dream: he was climbing a high mountain with me and thought that he was leading me, until he noticed that I was supporting him, and as the path got anguishingly narrower and narrower, he realized that I was exerting myself unreasonably to support him; then he woke up.

R. is in a very gentle mood, and he tells us at lunch that we must not take his vexed remarks, such as he made last night, so seriously. He tells us some very droll things from the Bayreuther Blätter (such as a Tirolean Jewish masked ball, violets optional) and declares that he prefers these illustrators to all our modern painters.

In the afternoon he goes on foot to the Cannaregio (I to the antique shop). When I arrive home, I go to see him; he shows me what he has written down as the result of his walk: "Too much talking and listening gets in the way of seeing." "Profitable seeing: all the things one's gaze takes in when one is glancing across a bridge."

In the evening we talk about Schiller's Don Carlos: the Queen's words "Never more shall I respect a man," which I have always taken to mean "since you are to die," R. interprets as love's bitter reproach to Posa for sacrificing himself. We talk of the great and deep delicacy of these turns of phrase, and when I remark how touching it is to imagine these delicate images of the soul sharing Schiller's miserable existence in Loschwitz, R. replies in a gruff but friendly tone: "Where should they come from, then? The Spanish Court, maybe?" He does not read to us this evening.

Sunday, January 21:

R. is skipping the massage on Sundays, and I beg him to give up the stomach tube entirely, believing that it must upset his nerves. He has arranged an outing for today; we are to have lunch in Saint Mark's Square, and, sure enough, Venice is enveloped in fog! Today he started his preface for Stein's book, and that puts him in a good mood. But it is cold, the meal is not ready in the Cappello Nero; I read aloud a nice letter from our dear Ponsch, and that helps, but the mood almost threatens to turn sour; however, since we are entirely by ourselves except for Jouk., R. does not become irritable, and gradually a very good atmosphere is achieved.

We wish to go home but are forced back by the crush, and from the restaurant we watch the masked procession, in which a cook keeps greeting R., and R. replies. It is estimated that there are 20,000 people in the square; the children — who went off at R.'s bidding but then returned — watch the seething crowds with us, "a black mass in which patches of flesh colour emerge," a strange, uncanny impression. As R. and I are riding home together, he talks about the sight and the impression, both so sad. "And yet," he says, "a person who does not try to make closer contact with the masses is not worth much!"

He goes to take a rest; I pay a call; when I go into his room on my return, he wakes up. In the evening he plays things by Weber, from Euryanthe and again, at my request, from Der Freischütz. We are pleased that after Beethoven such utterly new things should have been written, which in no way detract from Beethoven's greatness.

Herr v. Wolkoff visits us, quite a pleasure for R., and since he makes an apt remark about singers and orchestra (observing that voices and instruments do not mix), R. praises his accurate discernment and says that the orchestra should be the ground, as it were, on which the singer walks; tempted into it by this conversation, he sits down at the piano and plays and sings the scene in which Fafner confronts Siegfried, the awakening of Brünnhilde, then at my request the introduction to the third act of Tristan. But all of this upsets him; he talks in an absent-minded way and, meaning to tell us something about Dr. Rahn, forgets what he was about to say.

[Added in margin: "R. has severely apostrophized Herr Hausburg about his conduct, which he finds lamentable!"]

Monday, January 22:

He talks and is restless almost throughout the night, and is also unable to work. Yesterday was too much for him. We ride to the Square; he sits down under the portal but spends only a little time there. I receive a letter from Herr v. Bürkel, but I refrain from telling him about it; he says that the King is holding to his order for a performance of Parsifal in May (in Munich). He feels the outing yesterday was a success, and he says we should always just let him grouse properly — in him imprecations are the heralds of a good mood. Two telegrams from Rubinstein's father greatly touch us and make us deplore his son's harshness.

No massage in the evening, since the doctor has a serious operation to perform. A letter from Dr. Landgraf to Dr. Kurz (!) pleases R. greatly; he says we can consider Landgraf one of our best friends. In the evening there are just the three of us, R., Jouk., and I, and R. enjoys this; he feels a need for quiet, with nothing to provoke him into lively speech. He complains about his memory — today he thought he had had a letter from Jos. Rubinstein. I believe the reason for this is what he is now preparing for Stein's book. We come to the curious situation in France, and R. says, "They no longer have a flag." Then to Russia — he says they ought to take heed there of Gob.'s ideas.

(Recently, in connection with the question whether Jouk. should attend his father's jubilee, R. remarked how painful he would find it, were he obliged to tell himself that his fame put obstacles in Fidi's way. One's main concern is that one's children should be entirely individual and free.) Since the weather is again glorious today, we have to laugh over yesterday's fog, which looks like a spiteful parenthesis designed to spoil R.'s pleasure.

In the evening R. played the trio from the minuet of [Mozart's] G Minor Symphony, delighting in its gracefulness, but he observes that he does not believe such things make their effect in public performances. I observe that I have the feeling that both Mozart's symphonies and Schiller's dramas will vanish from the public repertoire, but that their content will come to be increasingly esteemed by all the people who matter. Agreeing with me, R. ponders on what in art might be regarded as perfect; he says, "An ancient Greek statue."

Tuesday, January 23:

R. slept well and has decided to have a massage only once a day. At breakfast we chat quietly together, and I make a firm resolve to tell him as little as I possibly can, in order not to thwart or overburden the cherished workings of his mind. He does a little work, and at 12:30 we ride to the Piazzetta in glorious weather, walk almost as far as the arsenal, sit down for a while in the Giardinetto, and return at 3 o'clock.

On the trip out R. mentioned Bach's fugues — "In these, chaos is turned into harmony" — he finds all other forms trivial in comparison, and yesterday he expressed his regret that music is so much the slave of its time, except perhaps only in its use of drama. On the homeward journey I sing the first movement of the C Minor Symphony, which amuses R. Our lunch is cheerful, and our receiving two calls (from Count Bardi and Princess Hatzfeldt) does not displease R. He continues reading Gob.'s book, increasingly astonished by the author's studies.

Chat in the evening, brought to an end by R. with the "Shepherd's Song" and "Pilgrims' Chorus" from Tannhäuser. He says he still owes the world Tannhäuser. Yesterday, recalling Blandine's wedding, we discussed what a catastrophe it is in these days to be born a Catholic, and R. argues that the tendency of this church is to condemn intelligence and a feeling for beauty and to rely on the common people, at the same time keeping them in a state of ignorance.

During our walk today he told me about an elephant in Siam which went wild with rage, whereupon first its eyes were torn out and then it was left to starve. "Humans are the stupidest animals of all," he continues sorrowfully. I take Spontini's remark and apply it to Nature, saying that it really does appear to have done more than it can do, whereupon R. says, "Until the appearance of the Saviour on the cross." I observe, "As recompense for all the disasters." He: "In the urge to put an end to the whole of Nature's will to live."

Wednesday, January 24:

Our conversation leads us to Neumann's suggestion of performing the Nibelungen here in Venice. R. advises against it. He then goes to work on his preface; last night, before undressing, he came to me to say how beautiful he finds the ending to [Stein's] Cornelia. Around lunchtime he calls me and reads to me the beginning of his letter to Stein, which moves me to tears. Since I say jokingly, "You must always put it all into words," he jokes back, saying I am never content with what he does.

In the gondola he recalls Falstaff's "Tell him I am deaf," laughs, and observes that this is what he always feels like saying when someone speaks to him; then actors, who put everything into words, and he thinks of the terrible meaning this free speaking acquires in the figure of Hamlet. Yesterday he remarked how foolish it was to ascribe a general philosophical meaning to "To be or not to be" — it was just Hamlet speaking.

It is very cold, a north wind; R. looks for a buckle for the fur he has given me; we cannot find one, and we freeze terribly. On our return home, we are much concerned about Lusch's condition; she is in bed. I consult Dr. Keppler. In consequence, a conversation with him about the present position of women, which R. describes as an unnatural one. Many, many great worries, alas!

R. tells me about a young couple who committed suicide for love, and he adds, "This is still the main tragedy of life." He recalls how the subject is dealt with by Lise and Bärbel in Faust, the relentlessness of common people. We are diverted from these dismal thoughts by my remarking how pretty his room (the blue grotto) is, and this leads us to his desire for colours, for perfumes, the latter having to be very strong since he takes snuff. "Taking snuff is really my soul," he says very drolly. At the start, he describes how gently glowing colours influence his mood, but later in the conversation he denies any connection and says very emphatically, "These are weaknesses."

Then we recall the roof-raising ceremony in Bayreuth (1873), and he expresses his amazement about the theater, "that it is there, that I brought it into being with my scores!" In connection with the roof-raising ceremony and the dizziness caused by heights, R. tells of a mountain-climbing expedition in which K. Ritter got into an indescribable state. "I already saw him lying at the bottom of the ravine, thought to myself, 'Now you've got his mother to deal with,' started writing the letter" — which amuses us enormously!

Thursday, January 25:

During the night R. read the scene between Valentine and Gretchen and says what a pitiful role Faust plays in it all, even in the illustrations, however handsome he may be made to look. I observe that in matters of love the women are always the more absorbing figures, with the single exception of Tristan. In the morning a telegram from Neumann, for whom R. feels sympathy, going through all his difficulties "with Semitic earnestness."

R. has caught a cold, and the thought of erysipelas worries me. The cold outside is said to be extreme today; we do not go out, R. works on his preface. At lunch there is talk about the personal participation of royal generals in battles; R. observes that it does not amount to much, they just use a telescope to assure themselves of how things are progressing; but people like Frederick the Great and Gustavus Adolphus could not leave it at that — they had to go and see for themselves how it was getting on.

Sitting in Lusch's room in the afternoon, I dictate a letter to Boni; R. comes in, takes the pen from Eva, and writes a sentence. The visit of the jettatore Count Vesuce gives him the chance to play another joke: he puts on the Count's coat in the antechamber and goes into Lusch's room to ask for her hand in marriage! He has a massage and seems to be well, but he complains that life is an eternal winter; the short days are a torment to him.

In the evening I have at last to tell him the contents of Bürkel's letter; he is very agitated by it, though he shows no anger, decides to engage an orchestra of his own, and tells me I should write and say that the state of his health does not permit such communications to be sent to him. Then he wishes to talk of other things; he brings up "To be or not to be" and says it cannot be spoken too morbidly, indeed even sentimentally — it is a brooding, an outpouring, to which it is foolish to ascribe any philosophical meaning. But then, in our bedroom, he comes back to the King's order and says impulsively that we should give it all up: "My works are there!"

Friday, January 26:

R. has calmed down, and at breakfast he tells me he does not know whether to call his future article "The Feminine in Human Life" or "The Eternal in the Feminine." Then he tells me about one of the Arsacidae, to whom a woman given him by Augustus meant more than anything else. He then goes to his work and is satisfied with what he does. But around lunchtime, when I have to inform him of the passage in Herr v. B.'s letter (he did not wish to read the letter yesterday), he gets very upset, even though the prospect of not having to do the performance until the spring of 1884 is a welcome one. We then ride to the Square in nice sunshine, but he feels indisposed, and even after our return home his "heaviness" does not vanish; he comes to our meal late, having abandoned it earlier.

A letter from friend Stein raises the question whether we should not advise him to break with his family and take refuge with us. The question is: Glasenapp or Stein for Siegfried? The evening is spent quietly and cozily in chat about all sorts of things, R. somewhat taciturn but listening with enjoyment. Just now and again he flares up like a half-extinguished fire about what the King is doing to him in ordering this separate performance.

Saturday, January 27:

R. told me his dream: wearing the mauve nightgown which he has on now, he went with me into a box in a theater; there people behaved improperly toward him, but he did not wish to show himself, though he could hardly avoid it, while I became very embarrassed — whereupon he woke up. R. slept well, and he works, jokingly remarking that he is no longer capable of producing an article as long as mine was.

Toward 1 o'clock we take a trip to S. Moïsé; but R. is somewhat agitated and remains so throughout the day, all the more so since the doctor does not come today. The evening conversation pleases him, except that he becomes very excited during the discussion of Peter Cornelius's remark in Munich about him ("rough outside, good within"). To end the evening we read Goethe's "Dedication," and once again R. remarks how little pleasure lyric poetry gives him.

Sunday, January 28:

R. had a restless night; an error of diet (beer) seems to have caused it. He works, and we ride in wonderful weather to the Piazzetta, where preparations are being made for the masquerade. At lunch R. is somewhat out of humour, but when he declares, "The best society thou find'st will show thee thou art a man among donkeys," we laugh heartily, and he tells us that J. Rubinstein's letter to me put that into his mind!

A letter from Richter recommends the baritone singer Sommer; R. replies. Before that he told me that he was not at all interested in hearing about children's ailments in Richter's household. When he comes to my room in the afternoon, I tell him the subject of my conversation was the happiness he must feel when he opens a work of his own and sees its absolute perfection; he denies that this gives him pleasure, since all kinds of thoughts about staging and so on come into his mind. But the public which goes again and again to see the things — they interest him. He also finds pleasure in the very large receipts in Vienna.

Unfortunately something is said in the evening about the heating in Wahnfried, and I, in the hope that something might be done about it, observe that our hot-air heating does not seem to be very good. This annoys R. He calms down, however, and at the end of the evening reads to us the final pages of Gob.'s history of the Persians.

Monday, January 29:

No morning conversation today, since I have to remain in bed with a cold, but instead, at lunchtime, a reading of the fine preface to Stein's dialogues! R. goes out, meets the children in Saint Mark's Square, and returns in good spirits with Lusch. Much joking at lunch about a letter to me from Herr Levi, and it comes out that, whereas I dictated my letter to him, I wrote to Lenbach in my own hand.

In the afternoon R. has a massage, and it seems to me that this treatment is certainly doing him good. At supper we talked a lot about Raimund's plays, which R. praised highly. In the evening we read the fourth act and the first scene of the fifth act of Don Carlos, with warm inner feelings over the power of ideality revealed in it, something which is completely Schiller's own. Before that we found pleasure in some melodies discovered by friend Tappert (among them one by the singer Riziol). And R. takes delight in the children, particularly Fidi, who is writing poetry in the lobby in a very neat handwriting — not because he feels inspired, just as a routine! (Of Loldi he said yesterday, "She lands in one's soul with a thud.")

A subject to which he frequently returns is the way women dress nowadays; recently, looking at a photograph under the arcades, he exclaimed, "If I were in charge of the state, you would all run around like that!" He says, "Women dressed like that belong in a harem at best." He talks about it again in the evening and mentions a print in the Cappello Nero showing women's clothes of the Directoire period, which he thinks very pretty.

Tuesday, January 30:

R. had a tolerable night; the mail brings him a nice letter from the singer Winkelmann, which pleases him. He copies out his article and then goes for a walk by himself, since I still have a cold. He returns home much delighted with the sight of the lively lanes, and observes that it is better for him to go out without me, however silly that sounds, but he is ashamed of his attacks when he is with me, the need to walk so slowly. He is afraid of offending me with this remark, seeming unaware that the only thing which pleases me is what seems right to him! He has brought me a lovely coffee service, and he returned home in high spirits in anticipation of my surprise.

At lunch Jouk. argues heatedly against vaporetti [steamers]; R. replied that he could not feel such concern about them, since they have a place in our modern world, in which the Jew Guggenheim is also one of Venice's benefactors; and if one wished to preserve Venice in its old state, one would also have to put the old families back in the palaces! At coffeetime we receive a visit from the two friendly painters Passini and Ruben, but they make an arid impression on R. and produce from him the merriest jokes.

Otherwise he is in a subdued mood, as so often now in the hours of dusk; he regrets that our palace is so far from the Square, feels we have no luck with our arrangements (a statement he tries to take back at once, fearing that it will make me sad); he says this will probably be our last stay in Italy — in future we shall just make a long journey every year. He still thinks fondly of Naples (Villa d'Angri); recently he made the bold suggestion that Venice ought to be situated where Capri is — so that one could have the two of them combined! However, he says he will do anything which he can assume will please me.

In the evening he reads to us from the newspaper L'Italie an account of the situation in France. (Before that, at supper, a great disturbance was caused by the news that Herr Neumann is to bring the Ring to Venice after all, though R. specifically advised Count Contin against it. R. sends Neumann a very emphatic telegram of disapproval.) R. asks Lusch to play the piano with him, but unfortunately she behaves childishly and refuses. So R. plays by himself — first the Andante from the Fourth Symphony ("for us the Third," as he says), then "Froh, froh, wie seine Sonnen" from the Ninth.

He once again points out how significant it is that Beethoven put into his symphonies none of the sentimentality so much in evidence in his sonatas and quartets. He says they are like great epics, dramas. In the sonatas, etc., he made music himself; in the symphonies the world made music through him. R. enlarges upon the stupidity of his successors, who then introduced this kind of sentimentality. At the end of the evening he tells me that he can still imagine a type of symphonic work, like the Kaisermarsch, for example, in which themes are not contrasted but each emerges out of another. However, he says he will make no more music — it excited him too much. (Delight in Fidi, who is now looking splendid.)

The description of the King's castle in L'Italie annoys R., making him feel ashamed of the whole relationship. He regrets that Rothschild did not make Vienna a gift of a million [the last twenty-one words obliterated in ink by an unknown hand].

Wednesday, January 31:

In the morning all kinds of reflections about the children. Concern, particularly for Lusch; Loldi is unwell. Then R. turns to the subject of the King of Bavaria, and we reflect on the twists of fate which have turned the relationship that appeared to solve everything into an unforeseeable source of bitterness!

I have given R. an article to read by M. Ducamp in the Revue des Deux Mondes, about Paris after Sedan, and he finds it interesting, though he observes that the author is wrong in assuming that Bismarck wanted a war with France and cleverly worked to bring it about; rather, he had foreseen the unavoidable necessity.

R. today dispatches his letter to Herr v. Stein; he comes to my room around noon and, hearing me cough ("barks instead of bells"), calls me "Phylax, who loyally on house and yard through many a night kept watchful guard" — and how happily I accept that name! He tells me what an indescribable impression the line Phylax came to die! made on him as a child. Since it is raining, R. does not go out today, and is quite glad about it. At lunch there is much joking with the girls; R. says he has already written to Schnappauf telling him to take them off to St. Gilgenberg! Herr Neumann cables that the performance in Venice will not take place — a relief! [Neumann's telegram from Brussels enclosed.]

R. was very pleased today that Hoffmann's valerian drops were such a help and allowed him to get on with his work by allaying his spasms. He is also very cheerful during his indoor walk in the afternoon; before that I hear him improvising — the blessed spirit of music is stirring in him — and to "Phylax" he is also overwhelmingly kind. In the evening we are visited by Herr v. Wolkoff and Frau Pinelli, by no means unwelcome to R., who ends the evening with "Harlequin, thou must perish!"