Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXI. The Miracle of Sant’Antonio
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“With myself, my dogs and perhaps a monkey.”
“You always say you cannot live without
music, who is going to sing to you, who is going
to play to you?”
“The birds in the garden, the sea all around
me. Listen! Do you hear that wonderful
mezzo-soprano, it is the golden oriole, isn’t his
voice more beautiful than the voice of our
celebrated compatriot Christine Nilson or Patti
herself? Do you hear that solemn andante of
the waves, isn’t that more beautiful than the
slow movement of Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony?”
Changing abruptly the conversation, my friend
asked me who was my architect and in what style
the house was going to be built?
I told him I had no architect and that so far I
did not know in what style the house was going
to be built, all that would settle itself as the work
went on.
He gave me another uneasy side glance and
said he was at least glad to know I had left Paris
a rich man, surely it needed a large fortune to
build such a magnificent villa I had described to
him.
I opened the drawer of my deal table and
showed him a bundle of banknotes tucked in a
stocking. I said it was all I possessed in this
world after twelve years’ hard work in Paris, I
believe it amounted to something like fifteen
thousand francs, maybe a little more, maybe a
little less, probably a little less.
“Listen, incorrigible dreamer, to the voice of
a friend,” said the Swedish Minister. Tapping
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