Country life -- Fiction; Italy -- Fiction; Peasants -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
“Sir, why will you be out so late?” said an old woman, who was the
_Massajà_ or housekeeper of the place, omnipotent over its womenkind
and its stores. “The woods are not as safe as a city street, and even
in the towns it’s ill being out alone after midnight. Daggers are
quickly whipped out; and pistols bark and bite both.”
“My good Caterina,” he answered wearily, “what have I done that anyone
should want my life? Money, as they know, I never carry.”
“So best,” said the old woman. “As for what you’ve done, sir, you’re
put in power here, and you’re a stranger. That’s crime enough.”
He did not answer, but stood a moment or two in silence in the warmth
of the hearth.
“You are from the North,” she added. “That’s bad enough.”
“North or South, what matter. Have we not a common humanity?”
Caterina shook her head.
“You mean well; but you are from the North.”
The argument seemed to her unanswerable. To him it seemed ridiculous;
but he saw that it was one of these ideas based on prejudice,
ignorance, and superstition, which are infinitely more tenacious and
hard to uproot than the strongest opinions founded on reason.
“Your woodlanders are great ruffians, I fear, Caterina,” he said after
a pause.
“They are not lambs, sir,” said the old woman curtly.
“The old man was dead when I reached the place, and they had let him
die all alone.”
“They don’t waste their time on sick folks, sir; and old ones, when
they have naught to leave, have no friends. Won’t you come to table?”
“Is it true that there is no doctor in the whole district?”
“I never heard of one, sir.”
“What do the people do when they are ill?”
“Well, sir, they die or get well, as Heaven pleases. But there are wise
women who know a good deal of herbs and magic, and there is a hermit
who sells charms up by the Sasso Scritto, that bald peak which you
see from the back door here. I bought a ring of him to keep my blood
flowing straight; here it is; look; I have never ailed a minute since I
wore it!”
“Are we in the last years of the nineteenth century?”
Caterina did not reply. She knew nothing about centuries, their
numeration or civilization.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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