Thursday, August 31:
‘The ship — do you not yet see it?’ —
As long as I sat working at Parzival, my imagination helped beautifully: — whenever the red curtain at the door moved my heart trembled: — she is coming in! —
Now the ideal tension is dispersed. —
Reality has again to be overcome, whole and naked! - Tomorrow she is travelling to Segszard‘? — for four days, — then to Venice’: wherever they take her to. — And she does not understand me! Amidst all the explanations for me it doesn’t occur to her how fearfully bitterly I suffer from her being far away. — And yet how long is it since she also failed to understand me. I was going to Tristan’s funeral, to see the Dear One once more: quite automatically I assumed She would accompany me. As she is not to, I too declare myself unwilling to go for some reason or other: she comes and cleverly and amiably tries to persuade me, putting this and that to me: I became furious and violent, argued the futility of the reasons adduced. Nothing did any good: in the end I had to tell her, actually tell her that I was not going to be parted from her, and would even abandon seeing my departed friend once more if she would not accompany me! — That would never have occurred to her! Only when she hurries home to insist on coming too, do I finally resolve to perform my precious duty towards my friend. — In the end I do have to go without her: separation from her makes me more miserable than grief for him I have lost! Thus it was. I was obliged to tell myself every instant! — And she?? — I come back and have to count the days until it shall please another to leave her to me. — She goes away, and not to a gloomy funeral — no! — She lets herself be taken here, taken there, — and when all has been settled, she will, I suppose, come back again too. —
Dear wife! I know that you suffer through this! But that you cannot so much as imagine my suffering, does tell me that man’s love is deeper than woman’s! —
And now I am suffering because of you! Your misunderstanding must in the end only cause me fresh sorrow on your account. — Ah, heavens! You cannot do otherwise, — I must not! It is misery! —
But — I do love you more than you me! — this sad conceit you must leave me! —
Oh! —