Monday, March 10:
R. had a tolerable night, and he works. “How utterly differently one works now!” he says, recalling that he completed the sketch for Lohengrin in only six weeks. Lovely spring weather; delight in the poultry yard; in the afternoon we have a splendid walk home through the palace gardens; the earth, still covered with white snow, nevertheless sends forth its fragrance, and through the brown branches one sees the rosy blue-and-golden sky; given new life, one’s soul rejoices, feeling at one with the brightness and the fragrance.
In the evening another game; R. laughs over the fact that when I sit beside him, watching, he always has bad luck. But one thing he says grieves me: “People will say of us: They won’t last long, they are too happy.” And the fact that he takes a mourning card to write down the scores also bothers me. Such is happiness! And I feel more and more that love and a longing for death are one, as in Tristan; life can bring it only pain or worry.