Saturday, August 28:
After I had written this, Richard [C. W. wrote “Hans” by mistake] brought me a letter from the cook in Munich, saying that Hans had gone away, despondent and sad, without saying where.
Terrible grief overcomes me, or, rather, bursts forth. I sob, completely possessed by the thought that my true duty would be to die. I remember being told by the botanist that a plant (spurge) would kill a person if he put its poison in an open wound.
Continual brooding: oh, children, my children, remember your mother’s words, no suffering is so hard to bear as the wrong we do; remember these words, wrought from pain in the most painful of hours! Sobbed the whole morning, uncontrollably. R. very concerned.
At midday the Brockhaus family and Prof. Nietzsche, all very kind. I elsewhere.
In the afternoon a letter from Judith; she tells me that my father wishes to settle my affairs for me, that he loves me, that Hans has gone away to expedite the matter. The letter did me infinite good; I began to breathe again.
Then came telegram after telegram and letter after letter, all reporting that the dress rehearsal of Das Rheingold had been appalling, ridiculous to the highest degree, and that stupidity had joined hands with malice to ruin everything. R. telegraphs the King and asks for a postponement.
Late in the evening I write to Judith and Hermine (who has also written).