Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXI. The Miracle of Sant’Antonio
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His eyes wandered round my whitewashed
room, he asked me if this was my villa, I answered
I had never been so comfortable in my life. I
put a flask of Don Dionisio’s wine on the deal
table, invited him to sit down on my chair and
threw myself on the bed ready to listen to what
he had to say. My friend asked me if I had not
been spending much of my time these last years
at the Salpêtrière among more or less queer and
unhinged people, somewhat shaky in their upper
storey?
I said he was not far from the truth, but that
I had given up the Salpêtrière altogether.
He said he was very glad to hear it, he thought
it was high time, I had better take up some other
speciality. He was very fond of me, in fact he
had come down to try to persuade me to return
at once to my splendid position in Paris instead
of wasting my time among these peasants in
Anacapri. Now since he had seen me he had
changed his mind, he had come to the conclusion
I was in need of a thorough rest.
I said I was very glad he approved of my
decision, I really could not stand the strain any
longer, I was tired out.
“In the head?” he asked sympathetically.
I told him it was useless to ask me to return to
Paris, I was going to spend the rest of my days
in Anacapri.
“You mean to say that you are going to spend
your life in this wretched little village all alone
among these peasants who can neither read nor
write! You, who are a man of culture, who are
you going to associate with?”
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