Saturday, April 26:
R. had a somewhat disturbed night—overwork, perhaps? And he feels the tightness in his chest, but it is decided to celebrate the completion of Parsifal today, since it is not until today that he can sort out and arrange the pages to present to me; I lay my very modest return gift at his feet, and the lamp holder is fixed to the table. At lunch we drink to the 26th. Meanwhile I go to the house of mourning and accompany my poor friend to the station, seeing her off on her very sad journey.
Yet all deep things are akin to one another, today I can both weep and feel joy, in my heart a single harmony; it is only distraction which engenders discord, this is the destroyer, in both love and art. With Parsifal, spring has arrived, and R. seems happy! I am somewhat overcome by the wealth of my emotions, and over coffee I fall asleep without being aware of it; I am woken by a slight noise, and find R.’s blessing! [Enclosed is a piece of paper containing, in Wagner’s handwriting, the words: “My dearest wife! Sleep well!”] All weariness is swept away, and I take the cherished sketches and arrange them, thinking of the children, who will one day find them.
Evening of chat, then something from Parsifal: delight in the nobility of the melodies, which no Italianate frills can obscure. For me it is a pleasant occupation to discern in this bud, still so tightly wrapped, the divine flower which was to unfold from it.