Sing me a song of the wisdom of old women!
I was bent upon exploring the hermitage, in spite of Lucia. The hermit has departed the way of hermits and others. In his stead reigns Orlando, a cross old man, between whom and Lucia there is war to the knife.
“Their excellencies are not going down without seeing the hermitage?” he whined.
“Certainly not,” J. assured him.
“Do not go in; it is a dirty hole, and there is nothing to see,” whispered Lucia, catching me by the sleeve.
“That silly old woman is tiring out the lady,” said Orlando to J.; “drive her away, she is a pest.” As I put my foot on the lowest step of the rough-hewn rock stairway leading to the hermitage, Lucia fell back and said no more. I was evidently out of her domain and in the enemy’s territory. As she had said, there was little to see in the two rooms cut out of the living rock. Orlando’s bed, a pile of straw, occupied the outer room, the inner cell served as his kitchen and larder. He offered bread and wine; we were firm in refusing refreshment; his feelings were soothed by a mancia, and by telling him we should come again and take his photograph (our kodak had been forgotten).
“The next time their excellencies come they must not let that old chiacchierone (gossip) hang on to them. She pesters the travellers so with her talk that she frightens them away. Truly you will find it set down in the red book of the strangers (Baedeker) that a guide is unnecessary, though a few soldi are due to the person living in the hermitage, who is ready and able to explain intelligently the view and the locality.”
At the foot of the steps Lucia again took us in charge, after an exchange of malevolent glances with Orlando.
“Stregona (Big old witch),” Orlando muttered.
“Birbacaione (Big rogue),” mumbled Lucia.