Sunday, January 25:
R. slept well, but cold, rain, no sunshine. He finishes his letter to the King, while Lusch and I go with Princess Ouroussoff to an Italian lecture; discussion of its utterly un-German character fills our conversation at supper.
We then play whist, R. constantly without luck, which puts him out of humor; he is also upset by the news that never within human memory has there been such a severe winter here; he says he feels everything is telling him to get out of the way, for he succeeds in nothing any more. He thinks of Wahnfried, of the hall, and regarding his work he says he knows it has all been in vain.
Were I to point out what, beyond the general sufferings of existence, is particularly painful, it would be the necessity of keeping some sort of contact with the world. Oh, Tribschen, oh, childhood days of the children, oh, the time of complete withdrawal from the world! Then came fame, then the children grew up, while we two were armed for only one thing, the tranquillity of love and creative work.