Monday, February 1:
A good morning: it brought me news of the Munich children. Richard, however, is vexed by mail from Italy: proofs. He says he would like to announce in all newspapers that he lives only through me, then hear nothing more.
I let the children come downstairs; much joy from their liveliness and their good health. But the day soon clouds over. When I went down to see how R. was faring, the poor man was quite beside himself. The botched scores which he receives constantly from Italy and Paris, and the stupid waste of time caused by them, upset him so; and he is unwell, too!
When I later rejoined him at lunch, he had restored his spirits a little with Schopenhauer. He read me some of it during the meal, among other things a little excursus about the old Cologne School; since I found this insignificant, not to say trivial, I voiced my feelings. To my profound regret R. misunderstood me and took my reply as evidence of ill humor toward him. He became angry, leaving me completely amazed and confused by his attitude.
I went for a walk in the garden and considered in my heart what I had already so often considered: the meaning of life and our task within it. I know quite precisely that renunciation, self-sacrifice, is the only thing which gives our life value and meaning, and willingly I give up every happiness and every joy. If, through giving up everything and everybody, I would not become fully guilty of the murder of my beloved, how calmly would I go off and live for the children alone!
Never, even in the hours of severest trial, have I seriously thought of parting from R., because I know nobody who loves him as I love him. If an angel were to come and tell me, “You are superfluous,” and to show me the prospect of a happy existence for him, how willingly would I embrace my cross, how calmly, my day’s work done, look Death in the face!
I am utterly convinced that peace lies only in self-sacrifice, and it shocks me sometimes myself, the fact that it looks as if I had arrogantly pursued my own happiness. It seems like a contradiction between the way I think and the way I act, and yet I know that what urged me on was nothing selfish. All the same, I question myself often, question myself as to whether I did the right thing. Then the daily task comes to my aid; to deal with that is to perform one’s duty, according to Goethe. R. reads to me from the correspondence.