February 2 Wednesday 11p 1949
Yesterday in Cleveland with Jean and Mother I took a short nap in their hotel room. I dreamed I was playing a piece of music at a lesson. The music was Bach—in the dream—it was a prelude. It wasn’t anything wonderful at first but I would repeat it, and with each new playing its power would grow stronger, and as of the first playing the melody was simply heard, with each new playing the hearing transcended into a feeling which went deeper, and deeper, at the same time the sound, the melody, the music became less remote and grew in intensity, and yet not in loudness but in perceptibility, not that it was clearer than the first time, but with it’s deeper power also came its acknowledgement, reconcilability, as if my senses stood up and took notice, and with all this did the thrill grow—then Jean turned on the radio and I woke.
The dream resembled, only in a pattern though, a recent lesson with Mr. D. where I played my Mendelssohn, which was dull until he told me to play it faster. Up till then I knew it was in want from its deadness but I didn’t think to play it fast for it neither looked it nor did Mr. D give me the impression that I was allowed to speed the tempo, but when he now bid to do so, the feeling came out and we went through it twice, the last time giving me the correct speed realizing himself that I had not been going slow because I didn’t know the notes. After we were through he said I was to play it on the next class recital.
As for the dream, I knew that the music in the dream was not Bach, except for, perhaps the form of the piece which might have resembled a prelude but not texture of the notes as concerning the harmonic feeling that dominated.