. .
There was a little episode in the late afternoon. We had reached the
foot of the Gaudolino valley and begun the crossing of the plain, when
there met us a woman with dishevelled hair, weeping bitterly and showing
other signs of distress; one would have thought she had been robbed or
badly hurt. Not at all! Like the rest of us, she had attended the feast
and, arriving home with the first party, had been stopped at the
entrance of the town, where they had insisted upon fumigating her
clothes as a precaution against cholera, and those of her companions.
That was all. But the indignity choked her - she had run back to warn the
rest of us, all of whom were to be treated to the same outrage. Every
approach to Morano, she declared, was watched by doctors, to prevent
wary pilgrims from entering by unsuspected paths.
During her recital my muleteer had grown thoughtful.
"What's to be done?" he asked.
"I don't much mind fumigation," I replied.
"Oh, but I do! I mind it very much. And these doctors are so dreadfully
distrustful. How shall we cheat them? ... I have it, I have it!"
And he elaborated the following stratagem:
"I go on ahead of you, alone, leading the two mules. You follow, out of
sight, behind. And what happens? When I reach the doctor, he asks slyly:
'Well, and how did you enjoy the festival this year?' Then I say:
'Not this year, doctor; alas, no festival for me! I've been with an
Englishman collecting beetles in the forest, and see? here's his riding
mule. He walks on behind - oh, quite harmless, doctor! a nice gentleman,
indeed - only, he prefers walking; he really likes it, ha, ha, ha! - - "
"Why mention about my walking?" I interrupted. The lady-mule was still a
sore subject.
"I mention about your not riding," he explained graciously, "because it
will seem to the doctor a sure sign that you are a little" - here he
touched his forehead with a significant gesture - "a little like some
other foreigners, you know. And that, in its turn, will account for your
collecting beetles. And that, in its turn, will account for your not
visiting the Madonna. You comprehend the argument: how it all hangs
together?"
"I see. What next?"
"Then you come up, holding one beetle in each hand, and pretend not to
know a word of Italian - not a word! You must smile at the doctor, in
friendly fashion; he'll like that. And besides, it will prove what I
said about - - " (touching his forehead once more). "In fact, the truth
will be manifest. And there will be no fumigation for us."
It seemed a needlessly circuitous method of avoiding such a slight
inconvenience.
