Saturday, November 21 (21st of November 1874)

Thrice sacred, memorable day! Toward the hour of noon R. calls to me upstairs, asking me to bring him the newspapers; since he had yesterday complained how worn out he felt and had also assured me that he would not finish before Sunday, I thought that tiredness had prevented his working any longer, but I was too shy to ask him; to distract him, I put down my father’s letter, which had just arrived, thinking—since my father was friendly toward our projected journey to Pest—thus to distract him. 

The noon hour strikes, I come to him reading the letter, he asks me for explanations, I tell him what I intend to reply to it, and purposely refrain from looking at the page of the score, in order not to offend him. Offended, he shows me that it is finished and then says bitterly to me that, when a letter arrives from my father, all thought for him is entirely swept away. I repress my pain at lunchtime, but when R. afterward repeats his complaint, I cannot help breaking into tears, and I am still weeping now as I write this. 

Thus have I been robbed of this my greatest joy, and certainly not because of the slightest bad intention on my part! ‘Dass wissend würde ein Weib’ [“That a woman should learn to know”]. The fact that I dedicated my life in suffering to this work has not earned ’me the right to celebrate its completion in joy. Thus I celebrate it in suffering, bless the fair and wonderful work with my tears, and thank the malicious God who ordained that I must first atone in suffering for its completion.

To whom impart, to whom complain of this suffering? With R. I can only be silent; so I confide it to these pages, to my Siegfried—that it may teach him to feel no rancor, no hatred toward the miserable creature that a human being is, but only boundless pity. And thus I am glad of my suffering and fold my hands in grateful prayer. — What imposed it on me was nothing evil, let my consolation be to accept it with my whole soul, without bitterness for my lot, without reproach for anyone. — 

May other suffering be atoned for by this, the most unutterable of all! The children see me weeping and weep with me, but are soon consoled. R. goes to his rest with a final bitter word, I search the piano for Tristan sounds; every theme is, however, too harsh for my mood, I can only sink down inside myself, pray, worship! How could I spend this day more piously? How could I express my gratitude other than through the destruction of all urges toward a personal existence?

Greetings, eventful day, greetings, day of fulfillment! If a genius completes his flight at so lofty a level, what is left for a poor woman to do? To suffer in love and rapture.