Monday, March 15:
Our reading kept us up until half past twelve; now R. has had a bad night and feels very unwell. On top of that comes the news that Pasdeloup will be here today to question R. about some things concerning Lohengrin. Since R. declares he finds it less of a strain when I am there, I, too, shall see the good, muddled man.
My letter to Judith Mendès was a distinct success; Truinet thinks it “parfaite” and Pasdeloup wants to bequeath it to his children as “titre d’honneur.” Received a letter from Hermine, but she has not yet received mine, since Hans was in Vienna.
At three Pasdeloup came and stayed till ten in the evening. All through this R. was so miserable that my heart bled. He recovered, or rather, he exerted himself. God grant him a good night! To be prepared to die a thousand deaths for someone at every moment, yet to be unable to alleviate his suffering: what torture!
The mail brought an anonymous letter from Breslau “in the name of 7,000 Jews,” full of abuse and threats. It reminds me that Count Bismarck’s assassin was a Jew.
They will drag us down into the mud; I will bear it all willingly just to remain at his side. They may revile me to the end of time, so long as I have helped him, have been permitted to give him my hand and say to him: I will follow you to the death!
Pasdeloup tells us that when, at his concert, some people hissed after the Lohengrin Prelude, a lady said to her neighbor, who was whistling ceaselessly into a key, “Monsieur, si vous ne cessez pas, je vais vous casser la tête avec mon petit banc” [“Sir, if you don’t stop, I will hit you over the head with my footstool”].
My single prayer: one day to die with Richard in the selfsame hour. My greatest pride: to have rejected everything in order to live for him. My finest happiness: his joy. Without him the world is to me no better than a sty, as Cleopatra says.
My blessings now on his night!