Tuesday, May 17:
R. dreams that, on account of unhappy love, I wished to die and was already clothed for it, with a wreath of flowers over my hair. He, furious, cries out to me, “But only a few days ago you were calling me Puschel!”
He starts his letter to the King, and that puts him slightly out of humor; he says, “Oh, finding a form of address to match those of the King!” Also, in spite of all assurances, he insists that the Count could not have received any impressions from Götterdämmerung, since it is not a symphony.
In the afternoon the Bruckners and Herr Brandt show us the maquettes of the temple and the Magic Garden, which are thoroughly satisfactory. In the evening our conversation touches on the French, and when I say that they have produced no poets, R. supports me.