Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXVIII. The Bird Sanctuary
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Anacapri. We both stretched out our hands to
the church goers, he for his soldo and I for the
bird in the pocket of the men, in the folds of the
black mantiglia of the women, in the palms of
the hands of the children. It speaks a good deal
for the exceptional position I enjoyed in those
days among the villagers that they accepted
without resentment my interfering with their way of
celebrating the resurrection of Our Lord,
consecrated by the tradition of nearly two thousand
years and still encouraged by their priests.
From the first day of the Holy Week the traps
had been set in every vineyard, under every olive
tree. For days hundreds of small birds, a string
tied round their wing, had been dragged about
the streets by all the boys of the village. Now,
mutilated symbols of the Holy Dove, they were
to be set free in the church to play their rôle
in the jubilant commemoration of Christ’s return
to Heaven. They never returned to their sky,
they fluttered about for a while helpless and
bewildered, breaking their wings against the
windows before they fell down to die on the
church floor. At daybreak I had been up on the
church roof with Mastro Nicola holding the ladder
as my unwilling assistant, in order to smash some
of the window-panes, but only a very few of the
doomed birds found their way to freedom.
The birds! The birds! How much happier
would not my life on the beautiful island have
been had I not loved them as I do! I loved to
see them come every spring in thousands and
thousands, it was a joy to my ear to hear them
sing in the garden of San Michele. But there
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