Tuesday, May 7:
Much cheerful talk with R., who jokes about his ailment: “My beloved has a furuncle” to the strains of “My beloved lies wounded.”
He dreamed that he had presented his theater to Fidi, who sold it for one mark in order to buy some paper; but the purchaser gave him only 50 pfennigs, and Fidi asked for another 50 pfennigs for paper. “You bad boy, you have sold the theater!”
R. works in spite of his furuncle and great vexations caused by Lulu. With all his usual kindness R. helps me put things right, and when he praises my sense of justness which smooths out the difficulties, I tell him that the justness stems from him.
In the evening the sweet fragrance of the Indian sagarika. R. says the reason he will never carry out his Indian project is that he does not know the names of the flowers, and these are an integral part of the subject. (With Loldi in the morning to the photographer’s.)