Thursday, September 29:
Fidi still unwell, but had a better night. The muddles in France do not cease; nobody there can discuss the truth any longer, nor can he face it. Telegram to Herr Lenbach after I had confided to R. my distress regarding the picture. No news from outside. Walk with R., letter from M. Meysenbug. I write to Karl Klindworth.
In the evening continuation of the “Death and Indestructibility” chapter. Before going to sleep R. calls out to me, “I am glad you are here.” We had spent a long time talking about our certainty that our love could not die. “These are matters so secure and certain, yet they cannot be defined; one can only express them in sophisms, in word play, as in Tristan: Were I to die for my love, how could my love die, etc.”
During our walk I had to laugh heartily: when we were talking about warmer climates and the senselessness of moving to cold Germany, R. said, “Cosima, what if the art of the future were to be a chimera!”