Adam’s Breed

their cages, but he fed them with groundsel and lettuce. He also loved children, even little English children who laughed at his wooden leg, and Gian-Luca he very particularly loved; had not Gian-Luca called him “Nonno”? It was therefore a personal outrage to Nerone that Fabio’s weakness had permitted, and for more than a month he never spoke to Fabio without bitter allusions to Gian-Luca’s soul, to the fact that Fabio was a traitor to his country and had once sold salame with a worm thrown in. Their evenings together had ceased abruptly, they no longer played dominoes now; but at nine o’clock every night Fabio sighed, and Nerone down the street became terribly restless. Nerone would go to a little cupboard and get out his dominoes; he would throw them on the table and begin to stir them as though he were making zabaione. “Mache!” Nerone would pick up his dominoes and put them away in their box; he would try to read the paper, or go for a walk, or find fault with the dutiful Rosa.

In the little back parlor behind his shop Fabio’s sighs grew louder; he would presently get up and begin touching things, until even Teresa, so calm since Olga’s death, had been known to look up and scold. On the thirty-fifth evening of this mutual torment, came Nerone stumping on his wooden leg.

“Good evening, Fabio!”

“Good evening, Nerone.”

“You come and play a little game of dominoes, Fabio?”

“Ecco! Perhaps I will.”

“Of course I beat you, but that you expect⁠ ⁠…”

“And perhaps you do not beat me!”

“Very well, then, suppose we go now and see.”

“I am ready⁠—I am not at all afraid!”

It was over; Gian-Luca’s soul might be lost, but not Nerone’s game. Arm in arm they hurried out into the fog. “You old fox!” said Fabio, by way of endearment.

“You old brigand!” chuckled Nerone.

Rocca took his Church in a swinging, jaunty stride, and occasionally slapped it on the back. His oaths were lewd and varied and most personal to God; he sharpened his wits on priests and nuns. Rocca had been a soldier and now he was a butcher⁠—he was pleasantly familiar with death; and as the Church, to Rocca, stood more for death than life, he was pleasantly familiar with the Church. He thought it a great pity that Gian-Luca should be sent to a Board School, because he mistrusted new ideas⁠—vegetarianism and the like. Roccas’s only comment had been short and to the point:

“Give me the devil I know!” he had remarked. Beyond this he would not discuss the subject except when in a fury with his wife. On such occasions Rocca lifted up his voice: “Giurabbaccaccio! But leave them in peace; is he your grandson? Alas, no!”

And at this Signora Rocca was forced to be silent; she was childless, a reproach among women.

Rocca jeered at priests, but he continually fed them, and many were the sirloins and legs of English mutton that found their way to the Old Italian Church. Rocca jeered at nuns, but the little “Flying Angels” had good cause to bless him on more than one occasion, for the wherewithal to brew beef-tea for their poor. Rocca jeered at God, but when one bitter winter, Rocca had managed to get double pneumonia, when he had lain there gasping and despairing⁠—fearful of living because of his anguish, fearful of dying because of his transgressions⁠—Rocca had invited God into his house, and God, being what He is, had not refused to come.

V

I

By the time that Gian-Luca was eleven years old, the resentment felt against the Bosellis for their choice of a school had all but disappeared. It could not well be otherwise; people still deplored it, but Fabio and Teresa were cogs in the machine that turned out the happenings of everyday life for the little group of exiles. And then, there was Fabio’s salumeria, no one could get on without his wares⁠—the sausages, the paste, the rich yellow oil, the straw-covered bottles of Chianti; nor could they get on without Fabio himself⁠—Fabio always so mild and friendly, with his halo of rough, grey hair. He had shown no resentment at their criticism, indeed he had seemed to feel that it was just; on the other hand, he had taken no steps to undo his grievous error. Against such humble but stubborn placidity the storm had raged in vain; now it had practically beaten itself out, and Fabio, Teresa, and the young Gian-Luca were once more at peace with their neighbors.

To this happy and desirable state of affairs Gian-Luca himself contributed not a little; people liked him, he was amiable and good on the whole.

“Can it be,” they murmured, “that the English Board School is not so infernal after all?”

Certainly Gian-Luca was not at all infernal, his temper was less violent than it had been. His manners were no worse than those of other children, indeed, they were rather better; he shone by comparison with Rosa’s son, Geppe⁠—a turbulent creature of six years old, born just before Gian-Luca’s first term at school. Moreover, Gian-Luca was a handsome child; he was slim and tall for his age. His hair had retained its ashen fairness, and grew low on his forehead from a little cap-like peak⁠—the boys made fun of this at school. His mouth was well modelled, but the underlip protruded slightly; a willful mouth, a mouth that might some day harden to endeavor or soften to dissipation. He was pale, with that curious southern pallor that turns to bronze in the sun. His hands were long-fingered and strong, like Teresa’s, but more firmly and delicately fashioned.

People whispered together: “He is beautiful, Gian-Luca, but not with the beauty of Olga Boselli.”

And their pleasure in his beauty was another ground for kindness; did they not spring from the race that had bred Donatello, Verrocchio, and the Della Robbias?

One thing only in Gian-Luca could they find to resent⁠—he