time before their death they cannot bear the sight of food.  In the same way my spiritual organism cannot stand sympathy and kindness.  It cannot bear memories either.  It is a very small thing, but I know now why that visit to Clara was such a trial to my nerves.  She uses the same scent I brought from Vienna for Aniela.  I have noticed the same thing before, that nothing recalls to the mind a certain person so distinctly as when one inhales the perfume she is in the habit of using.

22 September.

I have broken down at last.  I caught a chill yesterday coming from the concert-room, where the air was very close.  I did not put on my overcoat, and when I arrived at the hotel I was chilled to the bone.  Every breath I draw gives me a sensation as if my lungs in expanding came in contact with two rows of needles hidden under the shoulder-blade.  I feel alternately very hot and very cold.  I am continually thirsty.  At times I feel so weak that I could not go downstairs.  There is no question now about going away; I could not get into the carriage without help.  While writing I hear my own breath coming three times as quick and loud as usual.  I am quite certain that but for my nerves the sudden chill would not have done me any harm, but in my present state of nervous prostration I have lost all power of resistance.  It is undoubtedly inflammation of the lungs.

I shall keep up as long as I can.  In the morning as soon as I felt ill, I wrote to my aunt, telling her I was all right, and would leave Berlin in a few days.  In a few days, if I am still conscious, I shall write the same.  I asked her to send all letters and telegrams to my banker here.  I shall take care that nobody at Ploszow knows about my illness.  How very fortunate I said good-by to Clara yesterday.

23 September.

I am worse than yesterday.  I am feverish and at times conscious that my thoughts wander, but I have not lain down.  When I shut my eyes the border line between the real and the outcome of my sick brain seems to vanish altogether.  But I have still control over my senses.  I am only afraid the fever will overpower me and I shall lose consciousness altogether.

The thought comes now and then into my mind that I, a man more richly endowed by fate than so many others, who could have a home, a family, be surrounded by loving hearts, sits here lonely and in sickness, in a strange place, with nobody near him to give him a glass of water.  Aniela would be near me too—­I cannot go on.

14 October.

I resume my writing after an interval of three weeks.  Clara has left me.  Seeing me on a fair way to recovery she went to Hanover and promised to come back in ten days.  She nursed me during the whole time of my illness.  It was she who brought a doctor to me.  I should probably have died but for her.  I do not remember whether it was the third or fourth day of my illness she came here.  I was conscious,