Sunday, June 6:
At 1 o'clock down to Richard to tell him and to insist that for the time being no fuss be made, that the arrangements for the day be adhered to, and that Nietzsche should stay for lunch with the children. R. throws his dressing gown over me and leads me upstairs to bed.
The pains get more frequent; at 2 o'clock have Vreneli woken and the midwife sent for. Necessary steps to make the adjoining room ready for the new arrival; but the time adjudged to be not yet so near. I fear the weakness which previously delayed Eva's birth. R. at my bedside in great concern.
The midwife arrives after 3, to wait in the adjoining room, since I do not wish to speak to anybody. Things appear to quiet down somewhat. R. decides to use this period to get a few hours' sleep in order to strengthen himself for the coming day. He goes downstairs and gets into bed, but is so tortured by restlessness that he gets dressed again and comes upstairs. He rushes in and finds me in the most raging pain, being tended by the midwife. I was startled to see him suddenly standing before me and imagined I was seeing a ghost; I turned away in horror, thus driving him from the room into the open salon next door.
When he again hears my cries, he rushes in once more, since the midwife has left me alone for a moment. I gripped his arm as I writhed, but signified to him that he should not speak. The midwife returned; R. withdrew again to the neighboring room. There he remained ear-witness to the delivery and heard the cries of the laboring mother.
As he hears Vreneli come in and then hears her exclaim in reply to some words from the midwife, "Oh, God in Heaven!," R. thinks something terrible has happened to me and hastens to the landing to find out from Vreneli as she comes rushing out. But she greets him with a joyful laugh: "A son has arrived!" Her previous exclamation had simply been one of surprise that so little was prepared.
Now R. went back into the salon; from the unconscious mother he heard little more, yet on the other hand he could clearly distinguish the lusty yells of the baby boy. With feelings of sublime emotion he stared in front of him, was then surprised by an incredibly beautiful, fiery glow which started to blaze with a richness of color never before seen, first on the orange wallpaper beside the bedroom door. It was then reflected in the blue jewel box containing my portrait, so that this, covered by glass and set in a narrow gold frame, was transfigured in celestial splendor.
The sun had just risen above the Rigi and was putting forth its first rays, proclaiming a glorious, sun-drenched day. R. dissolved into tears. Then to me, too, came from across the lake the sound of the early-morning Sunday bells ringing in Lucerne. He looked at the clock and noticed that his son had been born at 4 o'clock in the morning.
Just before 6 o'clock R. was allowed in to see me; he told me of his solemn emotions. I was in a mood of cheerfulness and gladness: the gift which Fate had vouchsafed us through the birth of a son appeared to me to be one of immeasurably consoling value. R.'s son is the heir and future representative of the father for all his children; he will be the protector and guardian of his sisters. We were very happy.
The boy is big and strong; they say he weighs two pounds more than other newborn boys. We discussed his name: Siegfried Richard. R. felt an urge to give evidence of his joy throughout the house; he had handsome gifts distributed to all the servants.
From 9 o'clock onward, my hand in R.'s, I was granted my first strength-restoring sleep, even if short, lasting about 2 hours. At noon R. had to leave me in order to preside over the midday meal with his guest, Nietzsche, and the children. During this time I was given the attention necessary to my condition. At 4:30 R. was relieved of his onerous duties. While the children went for a trip on the lake, we spent the time together, quiet and full of hope. At 9 o'clock he left me so that I could get some rest and he himself recover from his exhaustion in sleep.