Sunday, September 27:
R. again dreamed that I left him. He declares that the expression on my face when I said, “The moon is my friend,” had made him jealous and caused the dream, in which I stole away from him in fine clothes, only to be with him again, dressed in a gray woolen jacket.
He writes to the King, who has asked for a detailed report on everything. “They’ve made a new dragon,” our servant informs us regarding the sgraffito.
A letter from painter Hoffmann, “woeful friend, breaking wanly through the painted panes,” R. exclaims, laughing, which causes me to write to the Bruckner brothers. R. reads me parts of a fifteenth-century folk song which enchants us, “To My Loved One”: “The chaste glance which troubles the heart!”
Today is my name day. My father does not write, which somewhat troubles me. In the evening we read with much emotion the story of Krespel in E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Serapionsbrüder. A remark by the professor surprises us with its great perspicacity; curious the sense of what the ridiculous can at times imply.