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When I first read “The Story of San Michele”, by Axel Munthe, many years ago as an impressionable young man, I considered it a great find. The San Michele of the title was the name of the author’s villa on the island of Capri, but the book is in fact a wide-ranging autobiography which deals only partly with the construction of the villa out of the ruins of a chapel.
Long before the time of online book clubs, this is a book that was often read because someone you knew said it was a MUST. A surprising number of people told me it was one of the best books they had ever read, so I read it and was duly impressed. So much so that years later, while travelling in Italy, I took the boat from Sorrento to Capri, and went to find the villa near the top of the steep island. At the time it seemed like a kind of pilgrimage.
But later I started having doubts – partly about the book but mainly about the man.
Axel Munthe (1857 – 1949) was a Swedish-born medical practitioner whose patients seem to have been mainly the aristocracy and the wealthy, including Queen Victoria of Sweden. But he also worked among the poor, especially during a cholera epidemic in Naples.
Munthe had first visited Capri while a medical student in 1875, and had then conceived the idea of building a villa from the ruins of the San Michele chapel, but it was only in 1887 that he was in a position to buy the property and begin construction. He did much of the work himself but also employed a local family. In 1890, running low on funds for the project, he opened a practice in Rome and from then onward divided his time between Rome and Capri.
For me “The Story of San Michele” (published in 1929) was, and remains, a compelling read, but the impression it leaves on me now is that many of its episodes are, at the very least, embellished. It might even be that he has introduced some fiction here and there for the sake of the story. There are also strange omissions (for an autobiography) such as any mention of his marriages and children. He was certainly aware of his own worth as a person, and although he must have been an entertaining dinner companion, I wonder whether one might have wearied of him a little towards the end of the evening.
I don’t do many reviews, and those I do are likely to be old favourites from my bookshelf which might be overlooked today by busy people who weren’t around when they were first published.
“Cider with Rosie”, by Laurie Lee, is one of those. First published in 1959, it is a lyrical childhood memoir of a way of life in rural England that has gone forever.
Lee begins his chronicle with his arrival in the Cotswold village of Slad at the age of three with his mother and siblings during World War 1. He writes: “I belonged to that generation which saw, by chance, the end of a thousand years’ life. The change came late to our Cotswold valley, didn’t really show itself till the late 1920s; I was twelve by then, but during that handful of years I witnessed the whole thing happen.”
It is an affectionate and mostly gentle story, though at times it reflects the harder aspects of remote rural life. It isn’t a page-turner but the picture it paints is compelling and appealing. More than six million copies have been sold, which puts it in very special company.