Miss Prim confessed that, though this was an obvious question, as yet she had no complete answer. Of course she knew where she would go first: she’d decided to start with Florence, where else? She’d spend part of the winter there, making the city her base, while traveling deeper into the country, getting to know its hidden corners, exploring its palazzos, towns, and churches, reading lazily beneath its sun and sky, soaking in the beauty she so craved. She also thought she knew where she’d end her trip: Rome. But in between? Miss Prim wasn’t sure. And despite this, or perhaps precisely because of it, she felt extraordinarily happy.
Lulu listened patiently to all these explanations, then closed her eyes, leaned back on the sofa, and said: “You must go to Nursia.”
Miss Prim crossed her legs and looked out of the window in resignation. Since she announced her plan, the entire village had been intent on telling her where she must go and what she must not miss out.
“Nursia,” echoed Miss Prim.
“The birthplace of Benedict,” said the old lady, as if the saint were a friend of hers. And she went on: “I’m very fond of the monks who live there.”
Miss Prim remained resolutely silent. She felt intensely annoyed at the thought that Lulu Thiberville might ask her to run some errand that would force her to go to a place she hadn’t intended to visit. She’d always thought it inconsiderate to use one’s age as leverage to make others do one’s bidding. After all, she had her own plans, her own duties and obligations. She had no intention of going to visit monks of whom Lulu Thiberville had decided to be fond. Absolutely not.
“Don’t rush to conclusions,” said Lulu with the imperious air that had created such an impression on the librarian at their first meeting. “I’m not about to get you to run an errand in deepest Italy. Would you be so kind as to bring me that green book from the shelves? And that red one on top of the piano?”
Miss Prim went to get the books, which turned out to be two enormous photograph albums. Her hostess took them in her thin hands and started turning the pages. After about five minutes, which felt more like fifteen, she found what she was looking for.
“Here we are,” she said.
She indicated a group of photographs and her guest studied them closely.
“It looks like a beautiful place,” murmured Miss Prim, “and a beautiful monastery.”
“San Benedetto,” said the old lady, adopting a light Italian accent.
“San Benedetto?”
“That’s right. Doesn’t it sound like music?”
“Actually, it does,” she replied, examining the photographs. “But the monks... it’s strange, I thought they’d all be very old.”
“You know little of life,” muttered Lulu with delight. “Tradition is ageless, child. It’s modernity that ages. Before I forget, you must go down to the crypt.”
“Why?” asked Miss Prim, far from overjoyed at the prospect of descending into any kind of crypt.
The old lady eyed her sternly, like a teacher faced with a child who stubbornly refuses to understand and whom she’s beginning to suspect may not be worth teaching.
“Look at this,” she said, turning another few pages of the album. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Miss Prim looked at the photos and nodded. Nursia had an austere piazza dominated by a statue of St. Benedict. At one end stood a basilica of the same name with a rose window set into its white facade. “Probably thirteenth century,” registered Miss Prim’s methodical mind. Another photograph showed a vast, deserted meadow between mountains, where thousands of poppies, primroses, violets, and other wildflowers formed a resplendent carpet.
“How wonderful,” she exclaimed admiringly. “It looks like a high plateau.”
“An apt comparison, since it is a high plateau. There’s an excellent hotel in the village, run by a delightful family. It’s perfect for you. The best thing to do there is rest, watch the world go by, and mix with the locals. You can’t imagine how inspiring it is to walk through the village to the market, saying hello to people, and then watch the monks tilling their land and listen to them singing Gregorian chant in the crypt. They’re restoring a second monastery. They may need help.”
“Nursia,” repeated Miss Prim in a murmur. “Who knows?”
Lulu peered at her with renewed attention.
“I think it’ll do you a lot of good, Prudencia. It’ll temper your modern hardness.”
She laughed, stirring her usual two lumps of sugar into her tea.
“Modern hardness? What do you mean?”
Lulu sat up so as to observe her guest more closely.
“Look at me, child, and tell me what you see. A sweet little old lady, perhaps?”
Miss Prim shook her head, smiling.
