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Vienna, December 11, 1919
IX., Berggasse 19
Dear friend,
Thanks for your telegram.1 It had the effect of a blockade runner. I didn't get to write these last few days. Nine hours of analysis, wedding, and sanatorium were enough. I can't keep up at all anymore. Correspondence is overabundant, and the contributions to our journals are accumulating as never before. Not one hour for my own work.
Today as well I am confining myself to only the most urgent matters. I consider Toni's condition to be hopeless; his general state of health exceeds by far what the known findings justify. Today they inserted a radium capsule into him by means of a drain. As a reaction, temperature up to 39.7 and pulse of 140, improved again in the evening. Psychically, he is living at various levels, sometimes at a very high one, sometimes on the familiar one of the seriously ill, with totally retracted libido. He scolds and complains a lot, cries for morphine, but is very often as tender and witty as ever. Euthanasia is not easy if one doesn't want to kill the patient directly. Margit is directing his care with a firm hand; I hope she will hold out beyond the catastrophe.
I saw Garami once, but I couldn't talk about the fund. I know that the decision is now in Bárczy's hands.
Rank is now—probably—in London. Getting around in the world is now more difficult than it once was, so we don't have any certainty. He is supposed to come back on December 20 with a children's train.2