but at the same time as indifferent as if it were not to me that she had come, or as if her being there were an every-day occurrence.  She came with the doctor, whose thick, curly, white hair attracted my attention and fascinated me.  After examining me he asked me several questions, first in German, then in French; and though I understood what he said, I did not feel the slightest inclination to answer, could not make an effort,—­as if my will-power had been struck down by the disease, as well as the body.

They worried me that day with cupping, and then I remained quiet without any sensations.  Sometimes I thought that I was going to die, but this did not trouble me any more than what was going on around me.  Perhaps in severe illness, even when conscious, we lose the sense of proportion between great and small matters, and for some reason or other our attention is mainly fixed upon small things.  Thus, for instance, besides the doctor’s curly hair, I was greatly interested in seeing them push back the upper and lower bolt of the door of the room adjoining mine, which Clara intended to occupy.  I remember that I could not take my eyes off that door, as if something depended on whether it would open or not.  Presently the surgeon came in who was to look after me under Clara’s supervision.  He began to say something to me, but Clara motioned him to be silent.

I am still very tired, and must leave off.

16 October.

My nerves have quieted down during that long illness.  I have none of those terrors that haunted me before.  I only wish Clara would come back as quickly as possible.  It is not so much a longing for her presence, as the selfishness of the convalescent, who feels that nothing can replace her tender care and nursing.  I know she will not dwell close to me any longer; but her presence soothes me.  Weakness and helplessness cling to the protecting power as a child clings to its mother.  I am convinced that no other woman would have done for me what Clara did; other women would have thought more of the proprieties than of saving a man’s life.  Thinking of this, bitterness rises in my throat, and there is one name on my lips—­But those are things better left alone, as long as I have not strength enough to think about them.  Clara used to sleep fully dressed on the sofa in the room next to mine, with the door open.  Whenever I moved she was at once at my bedside:  I saw her by night, leaning over my bed, her hair disarranged, and eyes winking with sleeplessness and fatigue.  She herself measured out my physic, and raised my head from the pillow.  When, in moments of consciousness, I wanted to thank her, she put a finger to her lips as a sign that the doctor had enjoined quietness.  I do not know how many nights she spent at my bedside.  She looked very tired in the daytime, and, when sitting near me in an armchair, sometimes dozed off in the middle of a sentence.  Waking up she smiled at me, and dozed again.  At nights she walked to and