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Mi muy querida Gertrude: Usted estará apesanumbrada al oír la extraña enfermedad que tengo desde que se fue. Mandé buscar al doctor y le dije: “Dame una medicina, porque me siento cansado”. Él me replicó: “¡Estupideces! Usted solo necesita dormir”.

“No es esa clase de agotamiento. Mi rostro trasunta cansancio”, dije. A lo que él añadió: “¡Oh!, es su nariz la que está cansada”. “No, no es la nariz. Quizá sea el pelo”, reflexioné. Entonces, el doctor mostró su desconcierto: “Ahora sí entiendo: usted estuvo peinando el piano noforte.”

“No, ¡de hecho no tengo!” dije, “y no es exactamente el pelo: se trata más de la nariz y la barbilla.” Entonces se puso más serio, y dijo: “¿Ha estado usted apoyando mucho la barbilla últimamente?”. Le dije: “No.”, el dijo, “eso me intriga mucho. ¿Usted cree que el problema estará en los labios?”, preguntó. “Por supuesto”, dije. “¿Qué es, exactamente?”"Yo creo que ha estado dando demasiados besos…”, concluyó.

“Bueno”, recordé, “le di un beso a una amiga”. “Piense”, dijo él, “¿está seguro de que solo fue uno?” Yo añadí: “Quizas hayan sido once”. Entonces, el doctor me ordenó: “No debe darle ni uno más hasta que sus labios se hayan recuperado”. “Pero ¿qué hago?, le dije, “¡Le debo ciento ochenta y dos besos más!”

El médico se emocionó tanto que las lágrimas corrían por sus mejillas, y me ordenó: “Mándeselos en una caja”. Yo tenía una que compré en Dover, pensando que podría regalarla. Así que los empaqueté con cuidado. Dígame si le llegan bien o si alguno se pierde en el camino.

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De Lewis Carroll a Gertrude Chataway, 1876

The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll

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Christ church, Oxford, October 28, 1876.

My dearest Gertrude,–You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, “Give me some medicine, for I’m tired.” He said, “Nonsense and stuff! You don’t want medicine: go to bed!”

I said, “No; it isn’t the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I’m tired in the_face_.” He looked a little grave, and said, “Oh, it’s your nose that’s tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he nose a great deal.” I said, “No; it isn’t the nose. Perhaps it’s the hair.” Then he looked rather grave, and said, “Now I understand: you’ve been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte.”

“No, indeed I haven’t!” I said, “and it isn’t exactly the hair: it’s more about the nose and chin.” Then he
looked a good deal graver, and said, “Have you been walking much on your chin lately?” I said, “No.” “Well!” he said, “it puzzles me very much. Do you think that it’s in the lips?” “Of course!” I said. “That’s exactly what it is!” Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, “I think you must have been giving too many kisses.”

“Well,” I said, “I did give  one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine.” “Think again,” he said; “are you sure it was only one?” I thought again, and said, “Perhaps it was eleven times.” Then the doctor said, “You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested again.” “But what am I to do?” I said, “because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more.”

Then he looked so grave that the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, “You may send them to her in a box.” Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it
to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe, or if any are lost on the way.