Every Month a Picture — The Old Beggar Woman...

My heart writhes in pain when I see her...
And I look about me to hide my face in shame!...

And you, my friend, did you see her, as I did, yesterday?... Did you walk beside her in the street, and sit near her upon the dirt... on the sidewalk? And did you permit your «dainty» self to bend down from its ivory tower to tend her wounds, and to wipe away the dusky sweat trickling between the furrows of her cheeks?...

And now — do you know her?...

A human being she is... She crossed the river of life, and spilled the water of her life into the current of time; then the deep flung her out, a piece of refuse writhing among the turnings of the roads... Ah, that old woman, when she stood before me, raising her hand, begging and imploring...

To this moment my heart groans... The sight of the white halo encircling her face wrung my soul, and pained it...

And I gathered up my flowing tears, to fly from before her face... No! I did not answer her plea... the cheap plea... I feared for her sake, from myself... I refused to pity her... it hurt me to grieve for her...
She is greater than grieving, this woman who sowed the water of her life in the current of time...
And I do not want you to pity her...

Far be it from that... I do not ask you to patch her palm with the five piasters... I want you to stretch out your soft, tender hand, which has never been accustomed to touch anything but silk and perfumes...

I want you to stretch out this hand of yours, together with mine, that we may gather up the remains of this sail... into a safe harbor... where there is no counterfeit pity, and no humiliation!...