Friday, November 19:
Wretched night; worries about Lulu's health, R. also still not well. I suffer gladly.
Yesterday evening R. played to me from Tristan, melting my whole soul. He became sad as we considered how musicians fail to take heed of such a work.
He does not want to send off his letter to the King, since it is Friday. I, on the other hand, make my mail orders for Christmas. In the evening a letter to the parsonage refusing to obey their summons.
In the evening the Apology of Socrates, quite wonderful. This morning R. did some further work on his essay on conducting and read it to me after lunch.