The Hermit · L'Hermite

Pamela Colman Smith gave the Hermit almost nothing to stand in. The sky is flat slate blue, empty of cloud, sun, road. An old man in a stone-grey hooded robe stands in profile facing left, head bowed, the visible eye a closed line, hair and beard white and heavy. A bare hand raised above his head holds a black lantern by its ring; it hangs level with his face. Yellow rays come off its sides. Inside the glass, cut by the bars, a six-pointed star burns. His other hand grips a gold staff at chin height. The staff stops below the crown of his hood, its foot in snow. He stands on white snow, small peaks breaking the line either side. Above him, IX.

The lamp is the tell. Tradition calls that star an old light carried down to a size one person can hold, and reads the card as purposeful withdrawal: Virgo’s patience, counsel taken from yourself before you take it from the room. Waite reads the raised lantern as an offer: the one who went in first, standing where others can see the glow.

A star that could light a country. Through that black casing it lights two steps of snow.

Upright, the Hermit is solitude that was chosen. The decision made quietly, the skill practiced without an audience, the silence a person needs to hear what they already knew.

Reversed, the retreat outlives its reason. The door shut for a season stays shut; counsel goes so far inward it stops being tested against anyone. The card sets no penalty on that. It asks what the lamp is for now, and whether he still means to walk.