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.
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