On the other side of the poor bed
in the gloaming stood Benedetto. The sick man gazed at the flowers in
silence. His hands and his lips trembled.
He had been a monk. At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married.
A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor
living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist. The wife
was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was
dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata,
near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the
bitterness of his soul.
A sob he could not check broke from his lips. He opened his arms,
encircled Benedetto's neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace.
Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.
"I am not worthy! I am not worthy!" said he.
But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man's neck, kissed him, and
answered:
"Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!"
"What blessing?" the sufferer inquired.
"That you weep with me!"
Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but
his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him
in astonishment as if asking the question: "You know all?" Benedetto
silently and gently bowed his head in assent.
Pages:
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449