Friday, February 5:
Silver morning, mist, sun, and water. Greetings, my dear children! The day was quiet and active; R. seems entirely absorbed in the Nibelungen, and our conversation at table was earnest, indeed almost solemn. We thought of Schnorr, the singer, and the last time he sang: the “Forging Songs,” “Now Begin,” Siegmund’s “Spring Song,” for the King and ourselves alone. The indelible impression of it resists both death and time.
Glorious, cloudless sunset; the tender, rosy evening glow enfolds the snow-capped mountains and casts its reflection on the water, while a golden crown sinks down as if from the head of Mount Pilatus, between these two tones a pure, heavenly blue. The dark earth on which we wander resembles life, whereas the bright sky is art, or, better, love.
One enters the house, after the heavenly vision has vanished, with one’s inner feelings in a peculiarly solemn mood. In pious concentration I think to myself that Paradise is only what we look at, observe; Paradise lost, on the other hand, is what we try to possess, grasp, and touch; in a word, the lost is the achieved.
From town R. brought me two lovely camellias; may they flourish, for I shall tend them carefully. And may Siegfried also flourish! We are willing, are we not, my children, to bear a little suffering together on that account? My dear, good children!
In the evening we had an interrupted dictation. I did not understand some of it and was foolish enough to say so, which caused a prolonged delay, though no real discord.