Sunday, January 31:
R. very unwell, I despondent because of it; on top of that a stupid letter from Mme Laussot, who wishes to give him explanations from twenty years ago! That annoys him, because it is so utterly useless. The whole day passes gloomily. R. is weak and very limp, he cannot eat a thing. I in consequence feel deprived of my soul.
At midday he says he cannot visualize what would have become of his life if I had not entered it. And if one were to say to him: But if your artistic plans had been carried through, if the King had proved steadfast, then you would not have been so utterly dependent on me? Nonsense! says R., he lives only through me, that had been his feeling from the very first hour.
He drags himself feebly through the whole day; in the evening I read to him Goethe’s correspondence with Knebel, but I suddenly begin to feel unwell and cause him anxiety. He fears that I am undermining my health through my seclusion here. Oh, indeed, my woe is great, but when I think of the possibility of Siegfried I am cured as if by magic!