Sunday, January 14:
R. had a good night, and I believe that massage is really doing him good, even if it causes a little disruption — e.g., a very late breakfast. He writes letters to singers (Materna) and to Heckel. A letter from Lenbach announcing a visit causes R. to pull my leg about my enthusiasm for this artist, and when I protest he says, "When one has someone like you to tease, one doesn't often let the chance slip." Sirocco storm, no outing possible.
Chat in the evening, comically enlivened by a little incident: R., feeling prejudiced against Dr. Keppler, had engaged a Dr. Kurz, whose prescriptions did not, however, appeal to him, and he then sent for Dr. Keppler. Now the doctor, who was engaged to come three times a week, turns up, and R. falls, as he puts it, "into his jaws." We extricate him, and have to laugh a lot over these complications!
R. sits down at the piano and improvises — lovely melodies which, as he tells us, are always piling up inside him. I tell him the fact that these blossoms are now sprouting within him is the reward for his collected outlook! "This is how we shall be," he says after playing. "Yes, this is how we shall sound," I reply to him.
I do not remember how we came to speak of the practice of summoning a priest to one's deathbed; I said that, though I can well see how life might drive us to seek this aid, I cannot understand why dying people are so reluctant to be absolutely on their own — even someone like Marie Muchanoff, for example, who died with such dignity, admitted a priest to her bedside. R. feels that the fear of hellfire is responsible.