Friday, November 16:
R. dreamed about Uncle Liszt, that he came here, embraced us very tenderly, but then said reproachfully to me, “Why, my niece, do you paint your face?” Whereupon I, with great dignity: “I hide neither my youth nor my age; I often look young and often old.”
R. works. But at midday a letter from Herr Batz, making renewed demands on behalf of the Ring “assistants”! R. is very annoyed, and I reproach myself for not having intercepted the letter. A walk with R.; the damp, misty weather does not agree with him. But he works, completing yesterday's canon.
In the evening La verdad sospechosa by Alarcón, with great enjoyment.