Why have you all abandoned me, Marianna? Even my father! Even you! Here I am, all alone, suffering, in this huge corridor, where there’s not a ray of sunshine, and no loving faces. I’m in a state that would wring compassion from a stone. I’m going to die, Marianna. Your poor friend will die here and never see you, or her father, again.
I thought I was getting better; I’d hoped to be leaving this dreadful sick-room. I’ve got worse, and no one’s hiding from me the seriousness of my condition.
If I were to die here, alone!
The nights are terrible, Marianna! Those long hours that never end! That flickering light, that crucifix, those gloomy pictures, those stifled groans, that snoring from the nursing sisters asleep in the armchairs. I have a raging thirst and daren’t disturb the sisters, who grumble, poor things, when they keep being wakened. Last night I tried to drag myself over to the little table to quench the burning dryness inside me. I felt as if I were going mad with thirst. But I’d no sooner got out of bed than I fell to the ground in a faint, and cut my head badly. I was found in a pool of blood …
Dawn comes, pale, sad, and unsmiling. Night falls, full of fears and shadows. I think of my father, my little family, of all those things that would allay even these present sufferings, and I cry and cry, and my chest feels sore.
My God! If I were to die here? If I were to die … without seeing my father?
It must be a terrible moment, Marianna! I’m frightened at the thought of being alone, with no one to comfort me … If I could only see my father, at least! Don’t you think it’s barbarous not to let us see those dearest to us at least one last time at that solemn moment? The only comfort I have is that of writing to them, as I write to you. But when I can’t write any more – what then? If my papa had any knowledge of even a fraction of what I’m suffering!
It costs me so much effort to write to you. In those rare moments when I feel a little revived, I force myself to write two or three lines: it makes me feel that I have a hold on life again – and I assure you that I cling to it desperately. But my hand shakes so much that I can’t even read what I’ve written, and I’m so feeble-headed I don’t know what my mind is telling me. I have to come back to the letter ten times to write ten lines.
That charitable soul Filomena comes to see me every day and brings me your news. God bless her for the comfort she gives to this poor sick woman! I can’t tell you how precious to my desolate heart is the smallest favour, or the least sign of sympathy … I’ve such great need of being loved … and loving intensely, since life is slipping away from me!