Saturday, February 20:
As, at first dawn, the burden of thoughts and worries, of sufferings borne and expected, brought me a deep longing for death, I suddenly came to realize how happy I would be now if only I had a mother! A mother who understood everything, who comprehended my love, recognized my maternal cares, and would be able to advise me; who would say, “Give me your children, I will look after them and make them happy.”
And my longing died. If one day dire hours should come to you, my children, you will find me there at your side!
I slept all morning. At lunch R. showed me a letter from Mme Judith Mendès, who this summer wrote a very remarkable series of articles about him in the French Presse. The letter, too, is very nice and full of buoyant enthusiasm. That pleases us.
In the morning R. greets me from below with the strains of the “Spring Song” from Die Walküre. I crept into the dining room to listen unseen.
Afternoon with the children; played the piano. Received a letter from Claire. She advises me to go to Munich. Much melancholy.
R. reads Das Rheingold to me.
During the day read some sonnets by Petrarch and found pleasure in a quotation from Goethe, “Whoever has good to do must be like a goading spirit,” which seems to me to be the right motto for R. He is the goading spirit for wretchedness and mediocrity.