Monday, September 11:
Your letter, my love! Again, sheer madness! Madness and no end to it! — In the midst of pure bliss, love, adoration, nature, music — and full of horror and trembling, crying out aloud and pining! — There’s nothing more I can say. If it must be, then let it: I surrender. Perhaps that is what you need: your father will be pleased: he likes having you there, you like being there. Why me there too? You have too much! — I can’t keep up any longer, except in feeling! God knows how you will come back. I know how you arrived back a year ago from being with your father: restless, faint, frail, miserable, lacerated! It was dreadful! I felt an anguish beyond all compare. So it will be now again. And ina year’s time? — The Bach fugue — the same dance. — How do appear to myself in the process? — And you go running away from little Isolde, for five weeks now — : That is how you deserve a sweet child! If you again go adventuring I shall take charge of the child myself, and you