Tuesday, August 2:
A wild night for R. and me; he dreams of his wife, who was insolent and malicious toward us and against whom he could defend himself only by crying out, “But you are dead.” With this cry he woke up; I heard him, too, but, being still in the grip of a dream which robbed me of the German language, called out to him in French, “J’ai bien dormi,” although I only wanted to ask, “What is the matter?” He, already awake: “Why are you talking French?” I, half-awake: “You cried out in French.” But his dream keeps on recurring throughout the night. In the morning it made us laugh a lot. And as usual R.’s dream was associated with my thoughts during the day.
R. reads me his continuation of the Beethoven essay: “To please you I have mentioned Palestrina.”
The French have been repulsed by the Germans near Saarbrücken. Great enjoyment in the afternoon; R. reads aloud Xenophon’s Symposium. Then he walks up the Sonnenberg to visit Frl. v. M[eysenbug]. I stay at home with the children.