On our way through Fontana we passed a neat cottage, caught a whiff of fragrance of oleanders in the garden, a glimpse of an old woman sitting bolt upright in an armchair, a flash from her sharp blue eyes. It was Lucia, our little old guide, her wild hair neatly coifed by a peasant cap; she sat up as if she were sitting for her photograph, stiff, uncomfortable, wretched in her finery.
That night at the hotel an interesting couple who had arrived since the morning sat opposite to us at dinner; a tall, silent man who looked as if he might have been in the army, and a grave, handsome woman of fifty. She has a certain noble amplitude of brow, a width between the eyes, a calm quality of face and figure, very restful in contrast to certain giddy young ladies of her age who enliven the table d’hote. She speaks English with a slight accent. We made acquaintance over the mustard, which we both prefer à l’Anglaise. The gentleman spoke of Ischia and the neighboring parts of the country with such familiarity that I asked him about my enchanted island, Procida.
“It is such an ideal looking place that it ought only to be inhabited by beautiful rose-colored maidens,” I said.
He looked at his wife as he answered me.
“Ischia is the island for handsome women,” he said. “Procida is best seen as you have seen it, from a distance. It is the place where the Italian convicts are sent.”
Was not that a sad pricking of a rainbow bubble? His next words atoned for that shattered illusion; they were addressed to his wife.
“Eva, my dear,” he said, “let me give you a little of this vino di paese (wine of the country). It comes from the vigna on Mt. Epomeo, it is the kind you used to like when you were a girl.”
At the name Eva I looked at the colonello, who was devouring green figs at the end of the table. He answered my questioning look by one of acquiesence.
Orlando was right! Lucia’s daughter and the husband of Lucia’s daughter had come to Ischia to see Lucia!
“May I trouble you to hand me that other plate of figs?” said the colonello. “The figs of Ischia are the finest in the world. I sometimes wonder how many figs a man may eat and live.”