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.