Wednesday, January 21:
Herr Feustel's birthday; I send the children to his house with the pâté de foie gras, in connection with which R. and I vow never to touch this ingenious product of human cruelty. R. works. I write to Dr. Standhartner regarding the concert in Vienna. Eye troubles chain me to the house and idleness.
In the evening I ask R. to read the text of Der Fliegende Holländer to the children, Daniella and Blandine, which he kindly does. My anxious desire to plant or cultivate the noble seed in my children grows daily. R. plays passages from Beethoven's Quartet, Opus [left blank], my favorite, and when I think about the effect such music has on me, I come to the conclusion that it is exactly like the feeling a mother has when the child first stirs in her womb, the movement of Eternity in her heart, the source of all things, usually silent, unmoving, resounds and stirs. I have the feeling that, just as the root shatters the earthen vessel, my existence, too, must yield to this striving.