Saturday, October 21:
Stormy night, hail, thunder, and I don’t know what else. R. dreamed of my execution: I had come to an agreement with my father that, in order to atone for my marriage to R., I must be executed, and only Lulu should accompany me. He had not believed it at first, but when he saw me being carried off on a bier, because I could not walk, he cried out, and his cry woke him up.
Before that he had dreamed that Siegfried was being performed and something went wrong on the stage. “Brandt, the lights are going out!” With these words he woke up!
Lessons for the children. R. finishes his letter to the King, to whom he makes the proposal either to recommend our festival to the Reich through a representative or to take the whole thing over himself. Read Sismondi. I spent much time reflecting in the evening, with a firm resolve to fight against melancholy, which is threatening to drive me mad.