Saturday, August 22:
The night took its revenge: I had to experience in my dreams the death of Napoleon III, and it was Hans who cried out to me: Cosima, Cosima, I shall die tonight! R. also had a horrible dream. We are all overtired...
Yesterday I was able to make R. laugh heartily when I said that every time Voltz and Batz came to see him I thought of the murderers who come to the kings in Shakespeare’s plays: "Enter two murderers." R. has financial embarrassments, and I fear it will be some time before our affairs are in order. He writes birthday greetings to the King, who is now in Paris to see the artistic treasures (Louis XIV!).
In the afternoon R. does some studying with Herr Niemann and is satisfied. During the evening we have to laugh tremendously at the curious remarks of this man, by no means untalented but completely uncultured, who, not understanding that we have settled in Bayreuth, prophesies that we shall not remain here; he rashly declares that the inscription on our grave will one day read, "Here lies Meyer Cohn" for we would sell the house and move to Berlin! Curious mixture of profound fellow feeling and utter lack of understanding, of talent and obtuseness, wisdom and foolishness, people without roots, says R.