on 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 fro in her own
room, in order to keep awake; but so softly that I could not have
known it but for the shadow moving on the wall, which I saw through
the open door. Once, when she was near me, not knowing how to express
my gratitude, I raised her hand to my lips; she stooped down quickly,
and, before I could prevent it, kissed my