“He is not a baby any more; it is now your turn, Fabio—I have done what I had to—it is time that you took a hand.”
“You mean—?” he faltered.
“That Gian-Luca must work; we are not like the English—idle.”
He nodded; she was right, Gian-Luca must work—Fabio had no doubt at all about this, for Fabio came of a thrifty peasant stock. They might spoil their children while they were little, but once they left school they no longer spoilt them; their children then, as a matter of course, became part of the earning machine. Nor did it occur to Fabio to consider those sums lying at the bank; that had not been the way with his peasant forbears, it was not the way now with Fabio. He loved Gian-Luca, patiently, tenderly, bearing him no resentment; but the idea of giving him a better education than that provided by the local Board School never crossed his horizon. When he himself had been Gian-Luca’s age he had worked at any employment that offered; that had been and still was the way of his people, they were not afraid of small beginnings. Adaptable and infinitely painstaking in business, with an eye always on the future, they respected hard work, sagacity and money, but completely lacked imagination.
Fabio laid his hand on Teresa’s arm: “Will you not advise—?” he began.
Teresa shook her head: “I have no advice to give; now it is you who must decide. The boy is twelve years old, he will soon be a man, he will not be backward, I think. While he was little I did my duty, I saw that he was clothed and fed and kept clean—he is no longer little, he needs me no more, therefore I may rest from Gian-Luca.”
“How you hate him!” exclaimed Fabio in spite of himself.
Teresa looked surprised: “You are wrong, I do not hate him, but to me he is alien—from the moment of his birth he has always been alien flesh.”
Fabio stared at her dumbly, then he cleared his throat and turning, spat into the fire. He was thinking: “I must go and consult with Nerone, perhaps he will tell me what to do.”
II
On the following day he sought out Nerone at an hour when he hoped to find Mario at home. Mario, he knew, was fond of Gian-Luca, and no doubt he also would be willing to advise. The three of them retired to a room behind the shop, in which Nerone kept his birds; the skylark, brought in because of the weather; a bullfinch that suffered much from its feet, two Norwich canaries that would very shortly breed, and a box cage of avadavats. The avadavats were huddled together in a long, ruffled, melancholy row. Mario began to tease the bullfinch with his finger, but kindly, because of its feet.
“I wish that I too could stand on one leg!” he said, almost enviously.
“I have come to talk about Gian-Luca,” began Fabio; “he must work, the moment has arrived.”
“You are right,” agreed Nerone, “we spoke of it last night; it is most unnatural how he reads.”
Mario stopped teasing the bullfinch for a moment: “What does Teresa say?” he inquired.
“She will not say anything at all,” sighed Fabio. “I have come to you two for advice.”
“Advice? Can you yourself not decide?” demanded Nerone sternly.
“There is so little choice,” Fabio temporized; “for Italians of our class there is very little choice, when we want to find work in England.”
“Oh, oh, but I thought you were English!” gibed Nerone.
“There is very little choice—” repeated Fabio.
“There is of course tobacco,” Nerone smiled complacently; “but tobacco I am keeping for Geppe. When Geppe leaves school he will come into the shop, which is lucky for his father, eh, Mario?”
“After meals one smokes—” mused Fabio, gently. “It is always much the same thing—”
“So it is!” laughed Mario. “They may say what they please, but when a man is starving will he think of his soul? I say no, he will think of his stomach; therefore, empty or full it is all the same thing—stomachs and nothing but stomachs.”
“Some people will even chew tobacco,” remarked Nerone; “everybody does in America, I am told.”
“There you are!” broke in Fabio; “what did I say? For us it is always the same.”
“You prosper, I believe,” Nerone said jealously; “I hear that you will soon be very rich. Why not let Gian-Luca work in your shop for a little? After that he could go as a waiter if you do not require him at home.”
“He may wish to be a cook,” suggested Fabio, “or perhaps a hall porter at a restaurant.”
“If he wants to be a waiter, I can help him,” put in Mario; “there is no doubt at all about that!”
“You!” sneered Nerone; “are you not well over thirty, and still at your Capo di Monte? Per Bacco! I think Gian-Luca could help you; I think it is the other way round!”
Mario flushed darkly. “You go too far, Babbo; insult me if you must, but not my restaurant. How often have I told you that the Capo will be famous, very famous, one of these days?”
“Many times you have lied thus,” Nerone said rudely; “many times have I spat out your lies!”
“Basta! Basta!” cried Fabio, dreading a quarrel; “I implore you not to get angry.”
“Who would not get angry?” grumbled Nerone. “Am I not a long-suffering man?” Presently he said: “Have you thought of our Rocca? I hear that he is wanting a boy.”
“I had thought of
