I’m writing to you from my bed. I’m very ill. My dear Marianna, if you could only see how the fever has devoured my flesh. I look at my poor pale and trembling hands, and they’re so thin that I think I can see the blood flowing through my veins. I have a hot, burning sensation here in my chest.
Today I’m feeling a little better, and I’m strong enough to write to you. I wish I could chat to you and think of those happy days that were full of life and joy, but everything around me is so dismal that even if I close my eyes and dream of the past, I don’t have the heart to smile. I’ve been very poorly, but the Lord hasn’t forsaken me. They’ve transferred me to the sick-room, which was a great blow. At least in my little cell I had lots of memories that, although painful, I nevertheless cherished; but here, everything seems so gloomy, as if every sick nun had left behind the spectre of her suffering. Who knows how many nuns have died here? Perhaps in this very bed! And as these thoughts occur to me, during the long, sleepless nights when I’m racked with fever, I’m seized with an uncontrollable shudder, and I see ghosts shrouded in black veils creeping quietly along the walls, causing the dim light of the lamp in the corridor to waver … and I feel scared and hide my head under the sheets. I cry from morning until evening, remembering that dear little room at Monte Ilice with its friendly walls that knew me, where I was with my family, with that lovely sunshine and fresh air, and those beloved faces … And when my heart has more need of comfort and affection, all I see around me are the faces of the nursing sisters, grown impassive through familiarity with the sight of suffering. And the light that comes through the window is pale, wan, and sickly. Joyful spring has visited the earth without sending a single one of its festive colours to this forsaken corner of pain and misery.
Yesterday a little white butterfly came flitting by and settled on the window-pane. You, who’ve been blessed by God, and are able to see the sun and fill your lungs with deep breaths of fresh air, can’t conceive of the sense of tenderness a butterfly’s visit, or the scent of a flower can bring to the heart of a sick nun! It’s as though the whole joyful panoply of spring – the perfumed breeze, the greenness of the meadows, the skylark’s early-morning song – were gathered round that butterfly and had come to cheer the sad home of all these desolate women. Alas, having rested for a moment on that sorry little flower growing out of a crack in the window-sill, the butterfly flew off, fluttering its wings, and disappeared into the blue. It was free, and happy, and perhaps had seen all these pale faces and all these tears!
In two or three days, I hope to be able to get up for an hour or two. I’ll force myself, as long as they let me return to my little cell … as long as they let me out of here …
Who knows when I’ll be able to see you again? I feel so drained of strength that it seems to me that I may never get out of this bed again.
I’ve come back to this letter two or three times, and yet you couldn’t possibly imagine how much effort it’s cost me to write it … However, it’s been a great comfort … the only comfort left to me. I wish I could keep on chatting to you, because in the meantime I stop thinking about my suffering, about being here … and lots of other horrible things besides. But now I’m exhausted. I’ve written a long letter, haven’t I – a very long letter for a poor sick person like me! You’ll have some difficulty in deciphering my writing because my hand’s unsteady, but you love me, so you’ll be able to tell what I’ve written … and what I haven’t written.
I should thank God even for this illness. It’s somewhat stupefying. I feel as though I’m dreaming, and I still don’t fully understand what’s happened to me … When I wake up, God will give me strength …
Goodbye.