The soldier stood there looking around, bewildered. He knew nothing: only that, thanks to an old dog he’d never seen before, handed over to him by another soldier, he’d had to take a huge detour; that he was tired, it was raining and his feet were wet. He found the whole thing exceedingly strange.

He found it even stranger when the young maid returned more than a half-hour later to tell him that her mistress thanked him profusely, found his gesture in bringing back the dog splendid, but on that evening couldn’t possibly receive him – ‘in no way could receive him’ – and accompanied him back to the gate.

‘Giovanna,’ she said on her return, ‘I’m taking the dog over to the farmhouse.’

‘In this weather?’ the old woman said, startled. ‘Can’t he sleep next to the fire? And what if ‘she’ wants to see him? Is she supposed to go over there?’

‘No, not in the house. Not here,’ the young maid said, standing with the dog at the open door. Outside you could still see snow and rain, and a row of dripping hedges. She looked for something to put over her head, but found nothing better than an old newspaper, which she took, and left. From the top step she turned once more to the old woman. ‘Be ready,’ she said. ‘She’ll call you to give you a note.’

But no note came from Signora Nodier the whole of the next day. Nor the day after. She stayed in her room, and the only time she came down was to ask the gardener something. But on the third day the note was on the table, addressed to Quintilio, the oldest of the peasants on her land.

I had access to it only many years later.

My dear Quintilio,

You won’t mind, after so many years in which we haven’t seen each other, if I ask you to do me a last favour? It’s a big favour, but it is the last I will ask. You can be sure of that. I beg above all, if you come, not to question me, don’t ask me twice to explain myself, as if you hadn’t understood the first time. The stranger this request seems to you, the better you’ll have understood. But how silly I am! You’re doing me a favour (you’ll do it, won’t you, Quintilio?) and it is I who impose conditions. I really no longer understand myself. With friendly greetings, to you, to old Maria, to the old Tromps and to the old Felicità. All old, now. How sad!

There was a postscript: ‘Don’t refuse me this favour, Quintilio. If for some reason you think you can’t do me this favour, do it for the little girl you once taught to fish.’

The old peasant accepted on the spot.

A week later, I happened to be passing nearby and paid her a visit.

As always, she received me well, and I had the impression that my conversation was not displeasing to her. I remember that at one point she rose and left me alone for a moment, so I was able to look around the room. To do that in her presence would have struck me as offensive.