Friday, August 31:
R. once more dreamed that I was leaving him. “And this time it is not a dream,” he had called out in his sleep, and with this cry had lost consciousness; sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, he had at last awakened, this time to find it really had been a dream after all!
The newspaper clipping about Bismarck’s statement to the gentlemen from the Figaro does not please us, and R. says he feels like Werther when everything is driving him toward suicide; everything is driving him toward abandoning all his plans; nothing he does brings him joy!
Today he bought a bow for Siegfried and his little friend. Yesterday he walked far in a vain search for our poor parrot, with much pain in his foot. Herodotus in the evening.