Gian-Luca put his head on one side and listened. His people! But were they his people? If he was English then they were not his people; and at this thought his weeping broke out afresh, he buried his face in his arm. All that was nearest and dearest about them came back to him in a flood; he wept for them now as a small child will weep for faces lost in the dark. Even Rocca and his goats seemed less to be condemned; had not Rocca offered him fruit drops?
There was something worth loving then, even in Rocca—something that he wanted to cling to.
He lifted his face and stared round the room, his eyes wandered over to the wound above the bed; it had grown in dimensions, for the thin, dry plaster had crumbled still further with the years. Gian-Luca no longer wished to prod it with his finger; he merely thought it very ugly; it seemed to add to his own desolation, itself so desolate a thing. He rubbed away the tears with the back of his hand—resentful, almost angry—then he suddenly remembered Teresa’s words—courageous words, coldly courageous. Going over to the table he found pencil and paper: “I have got myself,” wrote Gian-Luca. Climbing on to the bed, he pinned up his motto, then he climbed down again the better to see it.
And that was how Gian-Luca tried to cover up the wound in the plaster—and in his own heart.
VI
I
There was someone who always wanted Gian-Luca, and that was Mario Varese; he had a good-hearted, pitiful affection for Rosa’s foster-child. Mario no longer slapped his thighs, he no longer roared in play; indeed, it might be said that he was now quite grown up—he had broadened out somewhat in the process. Mario was nearly thirty-three, and his hair was receding a little. At one time his dress-suit had hung loosely on him, but now it was rather tight. His cheeks, always red, were redder than ever, and his eyes, that had bulged only slightly in the past, now resembled two brown balls of toffee. But for all this, Mario was still good-looking—and when he could afford it, flashy; on the plump little finger of his large left hand he wore a gold ring with a rhinestone.
Mario was very much the man of affairs when reposing in the bosom of his family; to hear him talk of his prowess as a waiter was to know that the Capo di Monte without Mario would merely have ceased to exist. Mario explained at considerable length the art of dealing with clients, the methods of tempting a poor appetite, or soothing an irritable temper.
“You assert yourself—but with grace,” said Mario. “You expatiate on the food. You say: ‘I will stroke the lettuce with garlic—no more than that, a caress of garlic—’ Then you say: ‘I observe that the signore is not hungry, that he feels no great wish to eat—in that case, I suggest Fegato alia Veneziana, fried with onions and plenty of butter—but fried, oh, so very gently!’ You watch him, and if he swallows the lot, you step forward and remark with a smile: ‘Good, very good; is it not so, signore?’ If he agrees, then you whip out the menu and tempt with another dish. It is all very easy, and you make them drink too; you observe—as though you were thinking aloud—‘The cellar contains some marvelous wine!’ then you smile: ‘But, alas! the Padrone has his whims; it is only the few who are permitted to taste it. He is like a hen with her chicks,’ you say: ‘He is like a great artist who will not sell his pictures; he rejoices but to look at the outside of the bottles—the insides he reserves for those who have a palate—however, I will do my best for you, signore; I myself will speak with the Padrone’!”
Mario said that the Padrone was sly, but that Mario Varese was slyer. “It is wonderful,” laughed Mario, “how the little round tins contain only that which is fresh! They say: ‘Listen, Mario! I want something light—what about a plate of that good consommé? I am rather afraid of tomato soup; it usually lives in a tin!’ ‘Signore!’ I exclaim, as one who is wounded, ‘here we make all things fresh!’ The chef, he it is who opens the tin in which that excellent consommé lives; they drink it up quickly, perhaps they ask for more—Ma che! They do not know the difference!”
Mario said that the Padrone had sworn to bring all London to the Capo di Monte. “We have red cotton curtains at the window now, but soon they will be silk!” bragged Mario. The Padrone, he said, was one who would rise; he had a beautiful wife—her hair was golden and she took in the dishes from the little door just behind the bar. She was not quite a barmaid, but she stood among the bottles and bowed to the clients as they passed. Her manner was aloof and she smiled very seldom, therefore when she did smile it made an impression, and those upon whom she smiled were pleased. The Padrone was like that, he also was aloof: he had the bump of selection. “You’ll see! You’ll see!” chuckled Mario delightedly. “One of these days we become the fashion, then we put up our prices, we make them pay high for the fat green snails at the Capo di Monte; and we grow like the snails, fat and rich!”
Rosa never listened,
