They are invisible till one descends by tiny paths, sheer down into
them. And there they stand, the pillars and walls erect, but a dead
emptiness prevailing, lemon trees all dead, gone, a few vines in their
place. It is only twenty years since the lemon trees finally perished of
a disease and were not renewed. But the deserted terrace, shut between
great walls, descending in their openness full to the south, to the lake
and the mountain opposite, seem more terrible than Pompeii in their
silence and utter seclusion. The grape hyacinths flower in the cracks,
the lizards run, this strange place hangs suspended and forgotten,
forgotten for ever, its erect pillars utterly meaningless.
I used to sit and write in the great loft of the lemon-house, high up,
far, far from the ground, the open front giving across the lake and the
mountain snow opposite, flush with twilight. The old matting and boards,
the old disused implements of lemon culture made shadows in the deserted
place. Then there would come the call from the back, away above:
'_Venga, venga mangiare_.'
We ate in the kitchen, where the olive and laurel wood burned in the
open fireplace.
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