Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXXI. The Regatta
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had seen it before. It meant that he was going
to suffer and that he was innocent, it was the
crucifixion of Our Lord he reproduced with his
outstretched arms and his bent head. I spoke
to him as gently as I could but he did not utter
a sound, he did not move from his cross of
agony. I put the key of the sailroom in my
pocket and summoned the whole household.
Nobody had been in the sailroom, nobody had
anything to say, but Giovannina hid her face
in her apron and began to cry, I took her into
my room and succeeded with the greatest
difficulty in making her speak. I wish I could relate
the pitiful story word by word as she told it to
me between her sobs. It nearly made me cry
myself when I remembered that I had been on
the point of striking poor old Pacciale. It had
happened two months ago on the first of May
when we were still in Rome. You may remember
the famous first of May many years ago when
there was to be a social upheaval in all countries
of Europe, an assault on the rich, a destruction
of their cursed property. That was at least
what the newspapers said, the smaller the paper,
the bigger the impending calamity. The smallest
paper of all was the ‘Voce di San Gennaro’
which Maria Porta-Lettere carried twice a week
in her fish-basket to the parroco to be circulated
among the intellectuals of the village, a faint
echo from the happenings of the world resounding
through the Arcadian peace of Anacapri. But it
was not a faint echo that reached the ears of
the intellectuals this time through the columns
of the ‘Voce di San Gennaro.’ It was a
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