But quite apart from the question of money, he felt bored when he thought of his tailor; bored too when he looked at his personal possessions—quite a number they were, he found to his surprise—for such barnacles collect on the keels of most ships as they plough through the sea of life.
“Too many useless trifles,” he would think. And one day he started giving them away to beggars that he met in the street, avoiding Maddalena and slipping out alone, intent on this unusual proceeding.
Maddalena might exclaim: “Your silver cigarette case—I cannot find it, Gian-Luca!” Or: “Those little gold cufflinks, where have they gone? I see that you are wearing your mother-of-pearl ones.”
And then he would look sheepish and would have to confess this new folly that he had committed, wondering as he did so why he had not sold the things and given the money to his wife.
She would say: “But, amore, what are you doing?”
And he would not know how to answer, for when he saw the surprise on her face he would suddenly grow very shy.
One possession, however, he still clung to firmly, and that was his collection of books; for he felt that his books should be able to help him—they were so wise, his books, and their range of subjects was so varied, so wide and so learned. He began to turn more and more to these friends, asking them to solve his problems, yet somehow the problems remained unsolved—a new cause for fear in Gian-Luca.
“I cannot find it—” he would say, bewildered, staring up at Maddalena.
“Find what?” she would ask sharply, and then she would sigh, knowing that he could not answer.
He said that he must see the Librarian again, because he would tell him what to read; so one day they walked to the public library, but when they got there Maddalena stayed outside.
“I do not want to come in,” she remarked firmly; “you will talk about things that I cannot understand—I would only be in the way!”
The Librarian was sitting with his arms on his desk; the library was quiet and empty.
“So you have come,” he said rather gravely. “I have waited a long time, Gian-Luca.”
And Gian-Luca remembered that he had not been near him or written for more than two years.
They talked for a little, then Gian-Luca said: “I want you to tell me what to read—there must be some books that explain our existence, that explain all the sorrow and the suffering around us—I cannot be the only creature who sees it, others must have seen it before me.”
“So you have seen it at last!” said his friend.
“Too much I have seen it,” frowned Gian-Luca.
“It was bound to happen,” the Librarian told him. “I have known that for a long time past. Why, I knew it when you were quite a little boy—” Then he smiled at his recollections. “You were rather a greedy little boy, I remember—Swiss roll with apricot jam—” Then he said more gravely: “You ask me for books that will help you to face your life; well, the world is literally snowed under with books, and nearly all books are written about life—but not one of them can help you with your life, Gian-Luca; that book you’ll have to write for yourself.” He saw something very like terror in the eyes that were eagerly searching his face. “Why are you so much afraid?” he inquired.
And Gian-Luca answered irrelevantly: “Because I am feeling so terribly lonely—and yet I want to be alone.”
“No one is ever alone,” said the Librarian, “but of course it needs solitude to prove it.” He got up stiffly, for now he was old, and he found a few well-worn volumes. “Take these,” he said; and Gian-Luca stared at them—he had given him fairy tales. The Librarian laughed softly: “The wisdom of belief—the wisdom of children—” he murmured, “learn to believe in a fairy tale and the rest will certainly follow.”
But Gian-Luca had laid the books down on the desk and was turning slowly away.
“You don’t believe me?” the Librarian said gently.
“No,” answered Gian-Luca. “I do not believe you.”
“Oh, well,” sighed the Librarian, “perhaps you’re too young—or not yet young enough, Gian-Luca.”
Then Gian-Luca held out his hand with a smile, for he thought that his friend might really be in earnest; but he could not help wondering whether the Librarian was approaching his second childhood.
IX
I
There was consternation in Old Compton Street when the clan learnt that Gian-Luca had left the Doric, even Nerone’s firm faith in him was shaken. “Dio! he must have gone crazy!” he exclaimed, chewing the ends of his moustache. Rosa and Mario were almost speechless for the moment, so great was their horrified amazement. “The Doric—the Doric—the Doric—” murmured Mario, and then he could get no further.
Rocca shook his head as he sharpened his knives with a long, slow, experienced movement. “Mad!” he muttered, “completely mad!”
“Well, what did I tell you?” broke in his signora. “This is all the fault of that Board School!”
But old Teresa said nothing at all, as was often her way when very angry, and this reticence greatly annoyed the clan, who could talk of nothing but Gian-Luca.
“I do not wish to discuss him,” she told them; “my grandson is no longer a child—if he wants to ruin himself and his wife that concerns neither you nor me.”
“But I love him!” wailed Rosa, whose tongue had to wag in defiance of old Teresa. “Our little Gian-Luca, I love him, I tell you! And so elegant and handsome he looked in his fine clothes. He had such an air as a piccolo even; Mario remembers when he lit his first match for a young lady’s cigarette—tell her, Mario,
