Thursday, March 4:
Still the snow landscape and sunshine with it, a calm and happy sight. R. working on his pencil sketches, I with the children; around noon I come downstairs and hear what he has just created!
He says he wanted to write down a page for me in which he would have contrasted his love with the love of Eduard, Tristan, and Antony; in me he had found the woman who could follow him in all respects, even as an artist, and now his genius must step in for the misfortunes of the other lovers and lead us on to happiness!
At lunch we again discussed the wonders and mysteries of Shakespearean tragedy: Cleopatra quite incomprehensible and yet so clear, so recognizable, so definite. It is that which distinguishes the true poet, R. says, the ability to depict everything as it is, without explanation or solution. The latter is provided by the philosopher, and everyone who reads such poems must be his own philosopher.
While he is speaking to me, instructing and uplifting me, I am reminded of the verse at the conclusion of Tasso, though in an entirely different sense. I cling tight to the rock of his love, on which my “I,” that is to say, my bad side, my self-will, my sinful limitations, was wrecked. To live for him is my salvation, in recognizing that I am always thinking of my absent children and hoping soon to have them here with me.
R. and I both had similar dreams: that we received visits and rejoiced in each other in a mood of harmonious well-being. Only in my dreams Blandine is always present.
Beethoven’s grandnephew has come begging again.
As we continue to talk about Shakespeare’s plays in increasing detail, he says he has often felt regret that in these works he could not enjoy each single ingredient for itself, for example, Henry IV by himself without interruption, and the young days of Prince Hal as a heroic comedy; this way would be artistically more consummate, though in a genius such as Shakespeare the very incompleteness serves to impart a true picture of the world.
He feels that with regard to artistic form we owe much to the French for having held so rigidly to the three unities, but one should be able to move about freely within these rules and project life into the prescribed magic circle. Shakespeare had exploded the whole machinery, and what one sees in him is not the world in a magic mirror, but something so real that one is startled.
Much else R. said to me about the nature of women. It makes me sad, deeply melancholy; we women cannot ponder these problems, we can only feel, love, yield ourselves. But how unworthy of R. I feel myself to be!
In the evening, dictation, after the children had provided me with much enjoyment. Good night, little ones here and yonder, and big one!
R. also reports that Rubinstein is to give a concert here. That is the last straw!