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136
A Day in a Famine-Stricken Village.
mixed with a little flour, but all kinds of clay are not suitable.
One kind stops hunger a little, but once when we tried another
sort our stomachs swelled, and we recovered with much
difficulty."
I listen to this story in silence. What can I say ? I, who
am satisfied with nourishing food, what can I say to these
people, who have been reduced to such a condition that they
discriminate between two kinds of clay—eatable and
non-eatable ?
I go out into the fresh air, which I inhale in deep draughts.
I feel as if my body, unaccustomed to this polluted, suffocating
atmosphere, was poisoned; yet in this air a whole family is
living and growing up ! I know, too, that there are many such
families ; I have seen numbers of them myself. I recognise a
fresh need, developing a new branch of relief work necessary—
to fight the scorbutus. In my mind rise combinations of more
easing rooms and nourishing food. So pondering I make my
way home.
It is growing late. The impressions of the day are surging
up in my brain. With a certain feeling of satisfaction I begin
to think of rest. But the time for that is not yet come.
Approaching the house I see at the door of my room a group of
peasant men and women who have clearly been waiting some
time, as some of them have sat down on stones outside. With
humiliation I detect in myself a feeling of antipathy to these
people who come and spoil my plans of rest. I have no
courage to turn them away, and begin mechanically to inquire
into their needs. I do not succeed, and begin to get impatient.
Ten or fifteen peasants stand before me, each with one or
more requests. Either because there are too many of them,
or because I am tired out, I am no longer able to recognise in
each a human being with his or her own personal dignity ; I
see only numbers of men who are expecting something from
me that is either difficult or unpleasant.
According to my habit of trying to meet the requests of my
fellows, I will not at once send them away, but choose a middle
course—something absurd, in the usefulness of which I do not
myself believe. I begin to make out a list, write down their
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