Thursday, January 7:
The day began well; Evchen slept peacefully through the night, and Richard told me of the cheerful dream he had had, in which we were walking and talking intimately together. Even when Fate has hurled us beyond all revelations of this sort, such as premonitions, visions, dreams, so that we can scarcely continue to pay attention to them, all the same a pleasant image is of great value. It seems like a greeting from friendly gods to whom we no longer belong, and I am thankful for it as for a moment of happiness.
Unfortunately this ray of sunshine vanished all too soon. Richard brought up to me two issues of the Süddeutsche Presse, which some impudent person had sent him anonymously; they contained a lengthy article by Fröbel about Opera and Drama. I cannot describe the feelings of revulsion that filled me as I read it. May God preserve you, my children, from ever being obliged to see the things you love, honor, and believe in being dragged through the mud. Here there is no question of a contest, in which one courageously faces up to the opponent, not even of a martyrdom joyfully endured in order to bear witness to one’s beliefs. This is nothing but a besmirching, which cannot be fought against, and the endurance of which does no good for one’s cause.
Richard saw my deep dejection and read the article for himself. At first he took it calmly, for it gave him additional material for his Judaism in Music essay. At lunch, however, we sought in vain to dispel the grief which had taken hold of us; all our experiences rose up before us like the ghosts in Shakespeare’s plays, and we wondered glumly why every word brought forth only dirt or met with apathetic non-recognition.
The whole day remained under a cloud. From town someone brought my Friend the expected letter from Boni. Also two friendly greetings from afar, M. Muchanoff and Elisabeth Krockow, but I really do not know what to do with these friendships. No one will follow me when he knows whither I have come, and it is only by you that I still want to be loved and understood.
The children in good health; Loldi talks about Reynard the Fox. In the evening the Odyssey, the finest thing in it the dog Argos, the profound mystery of Nature seemingly brought nearer and to some extent unveiled. The sick dog is the only living thing to recognize Odysseus through his change and disguise, then dies after awaiting him twenty years!