Sunday, February 27:
R. had a bad night, during it read in Fritzsch’s periodical two articles by a Herr Lbffler about Götterdämmerung, which are very good.
R. recently told us at lunch how one day at dusk he again met the poor man in Vienna to whom he regretted having once given only 10 kreutzer; this time he gave him a substantial amount and spoke with him; he was a poor engraver, who had injured an eye and was now destitute!
R. feels unwell, and so our usual Sunday reception in the evening is a burden to him.
I write Hans a report on the state of our artistic affairs; this almost exhausts me. The only emotion to which my heart clings for support is that, even if I wish more happiness for all those I love than is vouchsafed them, I do not wish better things for myself; the more deeply I suffer, the stronger grows this strange ecstasy of suffering within me. I should like to be able to assume that, just as earthly vapors turn into fertilizing rain, so, too, might the sighs and tears which come from me rain down as blessings on my children; however, if that were so, suffering would be a mirage, and it must be extreme reality!
We were pleased to find recently (in Littre) that the word soll comes from jul.