And I know, and I'm sorry, that one of them even ended up badly.

My wife Marta shares this opinion with me. However, she observes that when a poor man who is fairly honest finds himself among so many thieves who are greedy in the administration of the resources of a rich imbecile or madman (namely, me), the tactic of being parsimonious in the theft is no longer wise; moderate, gentle, daily theft is no longer, then, a sign of foresight, but of stupidity and a weak heart. And this seems to be the case of Santi Bensai, my secretary and my dear Marta's first husband.

Poor Santi (to whom I'm now indebted for not now being reduced to receiving handouts) knew the extent of my wealth and wisely estimated that it was sufficient to provide generously for myself, as well as for all those others who, like him, could be satisfied with discreetly scraping a bit off the top without causing exceedingly obvious damage. Perhaps, for the sake of their common interest, he didn't fail to advise moderation to his colleagues. Certainly he wasn't heeded. He created enemies for himself and suffered quite a bit, poor man. The others continued to bundle and cart off all they could. He, instead, pilfered like a sober little ant. And when I finally became as poor as Job, one could easily see that good old Santi was much more distressed than I was. He had scraped together just enough to live modestly, and could not resign himself to the fact that those others had not even condescended to leave me in the condition he was in.

"Persecutors!" he would exclaim, he who had drawn blood from me reluctantly and quietly, ever so quietly, using only a pin.

And more than once, seeing me a little too pale, he insisted on dragging me forcibly to his house for dinner. But he himself didn't eat, so furiously angry was he with those others.

I remained silent and listened to Marta, who from time to time began giving me lessons in wisdom. She defended my persecutors against the accusations of her husband.

"Let's be fair!" she would say. "With what right can we expect others to look after us, when we continually show them that we don't at all look after ourselves? Mr. Fausto's possessions belonged to everybody and everybody took them. A thief is not so much a thief as — pardon me, Mr. Bandini — as he who allows himself to be robbed is an imbecile."

And at other times she would say, as if annoyed:

"Come on now, Santi, keep quiet! Imitate Mr. Bandini, who at least keeps quiet, because he knows all too well that he can't complain about anyone now. If, in fact, he always looked after the others, even though it was no concern of his, what wonder, that these others have looked after themselves? He himself set an example, and the others have followed it. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Bandini has been his own greatest thief."

"So then, should I go to prison?" I asked her, smiling.

"No, not to prison, but certainly to some other institution".

Santi rose up against her. The argument grew more heated, and I vainly tried to restore peace by stating that, after all, these individuals did not harm me so much (since I know how to get along somehow), as they did the poor who needed my help.

"So, therefore," Marta would retort, "you not only harmed yourself, but the others too. Don't you agree? By not looking after yourself, you didn't even look after the others. Doubly bad! And doesn't it follow that all those who only look after themselves and never need anyone, show by this alone that they look after others? What are you going to do now? Now you need others. And do you think that having to show yourself grateful will benefit anybody?"

"Hey, what are you letting slip from your tongue, babbler?" Santi would snap back, hearing these words and fearing that I would take them as a reproach for the small amount of help he was giving me with all his heart.

Marta, as serene as ever, and looking at him compassionately, would answer him: "I'm not saying it for you. What do you have to do with it, Santi, my dear, you who are a decent poor man?"

How right she was! If I had let him carry on with his affection and consideration, I would have ended up living day and night with him! He never wanted to leave me for a single moment, and would beg me to accept his right and proper services. Poor Santi! But not even in my poverty did the fumes of my madness evaporate. I didn't want to be a burden to any of my former beneficiaries, and so with pitiful grace I wore my rags and carried my misery around wherever I went. In the meantime I tried try to find work for myself, any sort of work, even manual labor, as long as it gave me a way to take care of my few needs.

But my wise teacher didn't even like this.

"Work?" she would say to me. "That's a fine expedient! You weren't born for it, and now, by looking for work, you'll unwittingly take away the job that some poor devil may have been trying to land."

So, then, did the good lady want me dead? Her argument made an impression on me, and, not wanting to take away anyone's job, I went far away and asked to be taken in by a family of peasants who had once worked for me. In return, with the excuse that I always had trouble falling asleep, I kept an eye on their coal pit in the woods.