Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. Youth
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Roba di Timberio that was strewn all over the
garden. Maria Porta-Lettere told him all she
knew about me and Mastro Vincenzo invited me
to sit down in his garden and have a glass of
wine. I looked at the little house and the
chapel. My heart began to beat so violently
that I could hardly speak.
“I must climb there at once,” said I to Maria
Porta-Lettere! But old Maria said I had better
come with her first to get something to eat or I
would not find anything and driven by hunger
and thirst I reluctantly decided to follow her
advice. I waved my hand to Mastro Vincenzo
and said I would come back soon. We walked
through some empty lanes and stopped in a
piazzetta. “Ecco La Bella Margherita!”
La Bella Margherita put a flask of
rose-coloured wine and a bunch of flowers on the
table in her garden and announced that the
“macaroni” would be ready in five minutes.
She was fair like Titian’s Flora, the modelling
of her face exquisite, her profile pure Greek.
She put an enormous plate of macaroni before
me, and sat herself by my side watching me with
smiling curiosity. “Vino del parroco,” she
announced proudly, each time she filled my
glass. I drank the parroco’s health, her health
and that of her dark-eyed sister, la bella Giulia,
who had joined the party, with a handful of
oranges I had watched her picking from a tree
in the garden. Their parents were dead and the
brother Andrea was a sailor and God knows
where he was but her aunt was living in her own
villa in Capri, of course I knew that she had
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