Wednesday, May 5:
R. had some amusing dreams: that my father, in Indian costume, desired to have homage paid to him and said to R., “Kiss my hand.” Then that Dr. Schron fell off a chair and broke into pieces like a doll, the head divided from the trunk, and Frau Schron treated it as something quite normal.
He still takes his walk in the morning and enjoys the garden. Today what is now really the last sitting, after it lunch, which starts very gaily but ends on quite a serious note, when R. relates what he actually intended to keep to himself, that a decision has been made in Berlin on the question of vivisection: that it is a necessity. R. wants to leave the Reich and take out American citizenship. He asks what his art has to do with these cruel and indifferent people. Deep distress.
Drove into town in the afternoon, separated from R., kept meeting him again, and drove home, merry on account of it. Whist in the evening.