Darina Silone
THE LAST HOURS OF IGNAZIO SILONE
Oh God, give each one his own death .
Rilke
The afternoon of Thursday, August 17, 1978, he went
out for his usual walk in the garden of the clinic, along paths that
wound through expanses of lawn bordered by rosebeds. Tall shady
trees enclosed the garden and beyond them rose the peak of Mount
Salhe, which in that season was no longer snowcapped. He walked
securely, without the black stick - a present from the caretaker of the
house in Rome-on which he had been dependent for years.
It was a fresh summer day, the Alpine air invigorating, yet the
sun was hot enough to make us seek a bench in the shade.
"Today I'm in a mood for talking ," he said as we sat down. "I'm
worried about your health, for one thing."
Not for thirty-four years had he ever raised this subject, not un–
til the last five months of his life, in Geneva, where he spoke of it
often.
"Don't worry about me. I'm all right, except for this wretched
hand. It's you who've got to concentrate on getting well. You're look–
ing so much better than a year or even six months ago, I hardly
recognize you."
"Yes, I do feel better. I never thought it possible. I'd be very
comfortable here if it weren't for all that tiresome treatment."
"But it's the correct treatment, at long last."
"I realize that. Then of course there's the doctor. I've corne
across many doctors in my life but never one like him. And to think
that he sends me flowers! I can't stay here forever, though. Besides,
it must cost quite a bit. Are you paying all the bills?"
"Naturally."
"There's nothing owing?"
"Nothing, I assure you. I manage. Leave these problems to me
and don't worry." (He had always had a horror of finding himself old
Editor's Note: Copyright
C
1983 by Darina Silone.
