“Look at that Geppe,” she whispered to Gian-Luca; “he sleeps—but then, he is so young!”
Having left Gian-Luca at Fabio’s side-door, they betook themselves slowly homeward. Rosa was carrying Geppe, still asleep, Mario was leading Berta; with his other hand he clung to the hamper, which bumped against his leg as he hobbled. A quiet May dusk, the friend of tired faces, went with them down the street.
V
“And have you enjoyed yourself?” inquired Rosa, when at last she and Mario lay side by side in bed.
“Ma sicuro,” he assured her; “oh, very much, my Rosa—only think of all that we have seen!”
Turning over he checked off the items on his fingers, calling them out one by one. There were not enough fingers, so he tapped on the bedspread, while she lay and watched him—smiling.
VIII
I
Gian-Luca left school the following Christmas, having made neither enemies nor friends. He was missed a little by both teachers and students; by the former because of a quick intelligence that had made him an interesting pupil, by the latter because there was now no “Macaroni” to be teased and left out of things.
For a few weeks he experienced the novel sensation of having nothing to do. Just at first this was rather a pleasant sensation; he could lounge in and out of the shop as he pleased, or better still, stroll down the street to Nerone’s and hang about bothering Rosa in her kitchen until she drove him away. But after a time this enforced idleness began to pall on Gian-Luca, and then it was that he formed a new habit—he formed the habit of books. Hitherto all books had meant lesson-books, he had read scarcely anything else, and lesson-books had been part of a rule imposed not by himself but by others. Now, however, it was different, he himself was the rule, he could read or not read what he chose; and this fact gave Gian-Luca a pleasant sense of power, so that even the volumes which he had brought from school became suddenly much more interesting.
From his early childhood he had loved the sound of words, and now he began to discover things about them; their length, their shape, their color, their balance, their relation one to the other. He discovered the felicity of certain groupings, the strength and virility of others; the power of a name, the clamor of a line, the solemnity and vastness of a stanza. For the magic that unsealed his ears and his eyes, lay for him in a volume of verses; the verses were Italian; he had found the book one day, quite by chance, in Mario’s bedroom. No one had ever heard of the author, or at least, so Mario said:
“Non lo conosco,” said Mario with a shrug. “He is doubtless somebody new.” When Teresa and Fabio had retired for the night Gian-Luca had relighted his gas, which was forbidden, and then he had crept back to bed with his book. As he read he began to see pictures again—yet now he was very wide awake—these were pictures that someone unknown had seen first, and left for Gian-Luca on the pages. The next morning he was knocking at Mario’s door before that good fellow was up.
“It is I, Gian-Luca.”
Mario’s voice came, rather husky: “Per carita! What do you want?”
Gian-Luca put his head into the room, then his hand which was clutching the book. Mario reared up in bed like an angry retriever, his curly hair standing on end.
“Is it not enough that I work half the night because the Padrone has decided to serve suppers? Is it not enough that Rosa must wake me at six to do her infernal washing? Is it not enough that Geppe has a cold and coughs and weeps without ceasing? And now you! Come in, there’s a draught in my ear; I shall have the earache in a minute!”
Gian-Luca obeyed him; closing the door, he went over and stood at the foot of the bed. His face was so solemn that in spite of his temper Mario began to smile:
“Have you decided to visit the North Pole or has Fabio swallowed a yard of salame? I am wide awake now—what has brought you so early, and why do you look so grave?”
“I came,” said Gian-Luca, “to ask you for this book—I find it has beautiful verses.”
“What book? Oh, that thing! Ma si, you can keep it. I cannot recall at the moment who gave it—a friend of Rosa’s, I think; but put it in your pocket, Rosa disapproves of verses, and I hear her coming upstairs.”
As a matter of fact the book had been a present to Mario from his barmaid, given in the days when sentimental tokens had passed very freely between them. But Mario had never read one of the poems, and moreover, he now wished to deny the barmaid who, being a Latin, was causing him trouble by refusing to be denied.
Rosa came in: “What has happened?” she demanded. “I hope that no one is ill.”
“Not at all,” said Mario, winking anxiously at Gian-Luca, “it is only that this imp here has come to torment us, having nothing better to do—”
“Oh, well,” sighed Rosa. “I must not be idle, I have very much to do.” And she left them.
“Now go!” commanded Mario, glaring at Gian Luca, “but first, have you hidden that book as I told you? You have? That is well; I am glad that you take it; I wonder that Rosa has not found it already—I thought I had burnt it up.”
II
Gian-Luca’s unknown Italian poet was a wonder-worker, it seemed, for he wove a spell not only for himself, but for all his fellow craftsmen. Having read and
