Sunday, April 11:
R. did not have a good night, then he dreamed that Minna had run away from him, he in pursuit, and then he sees a moon: “But it is early morning.” It turns into a sun, then a second and still more, and finally a voice says, “There are 13 suns.”
I tell R. they were the 13 letters of his name, Richard Wagner.
Dissatisfied with the tea at breakfast, he says he would ask for chocolate, and he speaks this word with such a comic Saxon accent that we all burst out laughing. The mail arrives and brings me news of the death of our dear Brange! [Letter inserted in the Diaries; see notes.] I am able, with the aid of another death notice, to conceal this from R. If only I could remember whether I received a sign on the day of her death, so that the dear faithful creature did not leave us unnoticed. Oh, how hard, how terribly hard this mortal life! I find it impossible to overcome my sorrow, and the day passes as in a gloomy dream, unheeded R.’s conversation with Liechtenstein, all other callers, Lusch’s homecoming.