88
PARTISAN REVIEW
"Every bit as hot as four centuries ago. Just think of my suffe r–
ings down there, struggling with income tax and insurance , while
you were enjoying this lovely climate."
I was pleased : the sulking seemed to be over, and he had
unknowingly passed my little test. He took three newspapers every
day. Sometimes I wondered whether he really read them or merely
glanced at the headlines. But he had even read the poem.
Then we watched the French television news. President Pertini
was in Rome to attend, with other representatives of the Italian state
and government, a requiem Mass for Pope Paul VI in the Basilica of
Saint Mary of the Angels. Silone followed the scene with evident in–
terest, remarking jokingly that the President's life was indeed a hard
one: he could not even enjoy his holidays in peace.
The patient would not take his usual short siesta. Last night he
had slept enough, he said, which was true. He was in a hurry to
return to his manuscript and seemed to concentrate on it intensely .
After tea (served at the usual clinic hour of 2 p .m .) I reminded him
about his walk . Again the day was beautiful but, for the first time, he
refused.
"I'm too busy," he said. "I must finish
Severina.
You yourself told
me so."
"Not at the cost of sacrificing your walk . Don't overdo it."
"Let me alone, the walk can be taken tomorrow, twice over if
you wish, but today I'm not going."
It
was useless to insist. I went out to stretch my legs and mail
some letters . Half an hour later I was back again, dealing with my
correspondence, slowly and painfully because of my injured hand .
(A garbled version of Silone's illness and predicament had leaked
into the world press, and I had many letters to answer.)
The telephone rang. He signalled to me to answer it. A Geneva
acquaintance was inquiring about his health. She spoke English to
me. I tried to cut her short without offending her. Silone did not
know English (he had always resisted my attempts to teach him), and
it always irritated him to hear me speak this language which eluded
him. I was on tenterhooks: the caller, unaware, rattled on. At last I
got rid of her, but his sulkiness had come back .
We both continued to write , in silence .
The afternoon wore on: it was about five o'clock when I saw
him put the manuscript aside, take other sheets of blank paper, think
a while, then begin to write fast , pause, and start again even faster ,
while his face lit up, as if he were in a state of ecstasy. He did not
