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, 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.