Saturday, November 17:
R. was up almost the whole night! His annoyance of yesterday has upset his entire digestion.
He tells me most comically about an absurd dream: he was in a carriage with me, more and more people kept coming, but at last we were alone; then ever-increasing numbers of horned animals advanced on us. One of them, very strange, with huge antlers but a body like a bush, I was just alarmed, but R. watching - suddenly a large house with a party going on; R., much feted, is to dance a galop down a flight of stairs with Hans's mother, he declares that he is better at waltzes - suddenly great thirst; he cries out, “Georg, Georg, a glass of beer!” No one understands his cry - then a voice, “You have stolen my Kox” whereupon he wakes up.
The news that Clemens died of trichinosis horrifies us! In the evening R. plays his Fantasie from the year 1831; very touching! Inner absorption in the example of the great masters, dreamy simplicity - how different the juvenile works of today!