And Gian-Luca said politely: “I will certainly tell them, it has been very interesting, Sisto.” But his head felt heavy with the fumes of the cellars, and he longed to get back into the clean, open air and the health-giving blessing of the sunshine.
Maddalena took his arm as they walked through the garden: “It is better than this in Romagna,” she whispered; “this vendemmia is so small; but I would not tell Sisto, he wishes very much to impress his new cousin, he is proud of his little paese.”
VII
I
Sisto continued trying to be friendly because of Gian-Luca’s wife. Lidia was friendly because of Gian-Luca; she liked Maddalena’s tall, quiet husband; but even Lidia was not at ease with him, he struck her—indeed, he seemed to strike them all—as being a “forestiere.”
The Englishman’s home may well be his castle, but the home of the Latin is his fortress, and seldom may the stranger hope to penetrate beyond its outermost portal. Thus Gian-Luca, while sharing their family life, had a sense of being always just outside; they were never completely natural with him, he suspected a number of subtle reserves, and this made him stiff and shy in his turn, shy of asserting his claim.
Moreover, he resented their superior air, their complacent conviction that every alien was either a madman or a fool; he had met such convictions before, it was true, but in Old Compton Street they had not affected him, whereas here they appeared to affect him directly, and the injustice of this made him restive. Then these people differed very much from the clan in one all-important respect; these people had no need to assert themselves, they were in their own country and could afford to be generous, they were not compelled to keep memories green in the constant fear of absorption. What had been excusable in Nerone and the others—a kind of virtue in a way—was irritating in Lidia and Sisto, and more irritating still in Leone. And then there was the question of veracity; poor Mario was not strictly truthful, of course; he must always say, for instance, that the little round tins were entirely unknown at the Capo; as for Nerone, he would swear by his gods that his Macedonias were fresher than fresh, and this in spite of the fact that the tobacco poured out of their ends like dry chaff. Oh, undoubtedly lies were told by the clan, and the clan was grasping over money; but its lies were pure white in comparison to Sisto’s, and if its members loved money they worked hard to get it, whereas Sisto was both grasping and lazy.
Sisto was quite a new type to Gian-Luca, a man devoid of any ideal as far as his work was concerned. The ambition of the exiles was completely lacking in him; he cared not at all how he ran the estate, provided that he ran it to his personal advantage with as little trouble as might be. His pride of office never went beyond words, and even in words it could not be maintained, for at one moment he would brag of the trust imposed in him, and the next he would wink a large eye at Gian-Luca, explaining at great length and with many a chuckle some underhand piece of sharp dealing. Nothing was too mean or too puerile for Sisto, so long as it brought him gain.
“Ma guarda,” he would laugh, “a man has to live! What do you say, Gian-Luca?” And Gian-Luca, finding nothing appropriate to say, would observe that Sisto looked offended.
Very unwilling indeed was Gian-Luca to become the confidant of Sisto, but Sisto could never resist for long the pleasure of expounding his cunning. Yet after having poured out these revelations, he would usually assume the grand air, becoming very pompous and rather distant; then Lidia and Leone would also become distant, and Gian-Luca would be given to understand once again that he was only a stranger. He realized more and more every day how little he had in common with these people, how little they had in common with him, and this realization came as a shock; he had journeyed a very long way to discover that a man could feel foreign to his country.
Maddalena, who saw what was happening, grew anxious: “They are still rather shy, give them time,” she would plead, and then she would add: “But you are so much better, therefore what does anything matter!”
And this was quite true, he was certainly better, beginning to feel almost strong. But he would think: “It is queer, I am always a stranger—I felt like a stranger among the English, and out here I feel even more like a stranger—” And then he would try not to mind very much, because he had been warned against worry.
Yet all the same, he must say to Maddalena: “I have come home too late, donna mia—a man may come home too late to his country—”
And she, in her turn, could find nothing to reply; she could only gaze at him sadly.
II
The gulf had widened when Gian-Luca’s new cousins discovered that he never went to church. Sisto and his household were excessively pious, and their chagrin was great when they found that their guest refused to accompany them to Mass. Sisto had so many sins to confess that he needed the Church very badly; indeed, he used it as a spiritual lifebuoy to keep his soul from total immersion. Lidia, who had very few conscious sins, had a great many superstitions—so many, in fact, that her life was a torment—and these she must
