Friday, November 20:
I awake this morning from a melancholy dream, utterly shaken and suffering. I dreamed that, for the sake of the two little girls, I had agreed with R. to remarry Hans; correspondence with the latter, wedding in a white dress edged with bright flowers carried out to the strains of Riedel’s choral society; at last the double doors opened, and R., pale, silent, strangely transported, had to leave. Convulsively I held him fast, screaming loudly, until I awoke!
R. says he has often had such dreams—of how I left him, turned back toward him, he with my spectacles in his hand saying, “She is short-sighted; she can no longer see you.” Domestic cares—but R. works. In the evening read Moltke’s book.