Whoever likes may interpret this.
May, 1878.
ALMS
In the vicinity of a great city, on the broad, much-travelled road, an aged, ailing man was walking.
He was staggering as he went; his emaciated legs, entangling themselves, trailing and stumbling, trod heavily and feebly, exactly as though they belonged to some one else; his clothing hung on him in rags; his bare head drooped upon his breast…. He was exhausted.
He squatted down on a stone by the side of the road, bent forward, propped his elbows on his knees, covered his face with both hands, and between his crooked fingers the tears dripped on the dry, grey dust.
He was remembering….
He remembered how he had once been healthy and rich,—and how he had squandered his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies…. And lo! now he had not a crust of bread, and every one had abandoned him, his friends even more promptly than his enemies…. Could he possibly humble himself to the point of asking alms? And he felt bitter and ashamed at heart.
And the tears still dripped and dripped, mottling the grey dust.
Suddenly he heard some one calling him by name. He raised his weary head and beheld in front of him a stranger: a face calm and dignified, but not stern; eyes not beaming, but bright; a gaze penetrating, but not evil.