Friday, June 4:
Early. R. was up before 6 o'clock; orders that his bedroom should again be moved to the downstairs apartment.
[At this point C. W.'s entries resumed.] When I come down R. hands me this book with the pages he has written in it. I should have preferred him not to have done so. I believe I was given the coup de grace yesterday, and life confronts me as an insoluble enigma to which I intend to give no further thought.
I keep the children occupied, rather than concern myself with them, for inside me all is sadness. R. seems unwell; I avoid all reference to yesterday evening because I wish to say nothing about it. It appears to me like a judgment of God, and it must be borne. R. occupies himself with Beethoven and talks about his death, in his 57th year. He also says he has been overcome with a great longing to complete his Siegfried. May God give him the strength and spirits for it!
I spend the whole day in a sort of daze, the only thing to arouse my repugnance being an enclosure from Dr. Lang, a Jewish pamphlet in which a letter from R. to Tausig is printed. I am not happy about this, but I suppose it does not really matter. To town with the children, returning by boat. Quiet, melancholy evening.
Saturday, June 5:
Splendid weather, summer heat. Prof. Nietzsche, the philologist, announces a visit; R. wishes to put him off, I feel it is better that he come. I have still not emerged from my dazed state; I hear everything like a very distant echo, and everything melts away as if in a fog.
Long conversation with R.; he believes that I am capable of bearing grudges against him, whereas any harshness from him in fact simply annihilates me.
[Continued from here in R. W.'s handwriting.] A bearable evening spent with Nietzsche. Said good night about 11. The labor pains begin. At midnight leave the children's bedroom upstairs and, in order not to awake anybody, carry my bedclothes myself in two journeys down to the lower bedroom.