Schmidt, intensely attracted by the lure of emotion, felt obliged to forgive Gian-Luca. He could never resist discussing such matters, and so began sympathizing.
“You think she not like you so much as before? Never mind, Gian-Luca, it all come right. You bring her a small bunch of flowers one day—Ach! but she is wunderschön!”
He oozed sentiment now from every pore, he was like a ridiculous maiden. “I vill tell you about my girl,” he said sighing; “she is all pink and white like raspberries and cream—she have lovely brown eyes and the big, round hips, what move all the time ven she walks—”
“Go to hell!” growled Gian-Luca, who could not endure this coupling of his love with Schmidt’s.
“Very well then,” said Schmidt, as he turned away; “you think yourself vunderful, very high up! But one efning you come and you say to me: ‘Schmidt, you show me some jolly, nice girls!’ ”
“Dio!” groaned Gian-Luca; “will you leave me alone? I do not want any of your girls!”
III
The Padrone it was, and not the Padrona, who suddenly invited Gian-Luca to take part in a day’s excursion on the river. This was in September when business was still slack, they would all lunch at Maidenhead. The Padrone was anxious to appear polite to Fabio, in order that he might drive harder bargains, so his ever fertile mind hit upon the idea of doing a small kindness to the grandson.
“Guarda,” Mario shrugged, “you are getting very grand, you will soon not wish to come with me and Rosa.”
“Foolish words!” Gian-Luca told him. “Do I not love you and Rosa?” He was feeling far too happy to be cross.
The train was very crowded but this did not incommode them; the Padrone travelled grandly, first class. This had always been his way when things were going well; he drove hard and squeezed in business, but when on pleasure bent he spent his money freely, like a duke. The Padrona was most richly dressed in cherry-colored foulard; her shady hat had three white ostrich feathers. Round her neck she wore a large, expensive, puffy feather boa, and her little hands were squeezed into new gloves. She was feeling tired, however, and her face looked pale and fretful—she leant back and closed her eyes during the journey. From time to time Gian-Luca stole a surreptitious glance; her long lashes lay so softly—they were golden like her hair, but they darkened very slightly at their tips.
Arrived at Maidenhead, the Padrone hired a steam launch; they were very rich in everything today. They steamed up and down the river, the Padrone sprawling out with his greasy head supported by red cushions. He was smoking a cigar which he chewed from time to time, and then spat across his wife into the water. They went to lunch at Skindles’ to amuse the tired Padrona, who liked gaiety, or so her husband said. Skindles’ was very crowded and the service very slow; the Padrone made several little scenes.
“These English people!” he jeered to Gian-Luca: “they eat roast beef and cabbage and pickled onions. Their waiters are vile and their cooks are still viler; and when they come out to enjoy themselves, one would think they were attending a funeral.”
The Padrone himself was growing rather noisy, he was drinking a good deal of wine. His morning had begun with several gins and bitters, and just before luncheon he had swallowed another in order to keep up his spirits. The Padrona was very quiet and aloof, she scarcely glanced at Gian-Luca; in his desperation he began making jokes at which the Padrone laughed boisterously—the Padrona did not laugh at all. Gian-Luca was filled with the bitter knowledge of doing and saying the wrong thing; he was thankful when at last the meal came to an end and his host was disputing the bill. The Padrona left them to go to the cloakroom and Gian-Luca strolled into the garden, but after him hurried the redfaced Padrone and seized the lapel of his coat. The Padrone was now feeling melodramatic, his brown eyes were swimming, his lips sagged a little.
“If you knew how that woman torments me!” he began; “if you knew how she makes me suffer. I say: ‘Cesare, be careful, be very, very careful, she is young, any moment she may leave you!’ ”
“Ma no,” said Gian-Luca.
“Ma si,” babbled the Padrone; “I say; ‘She is young, she may leave you.’ ”
Gian-Luca had perforce to stand there and listen, the Padrone was really very drunk.
“If you knew—if you knew—” he kept on repeating, and his eyes filled with idiotic tears.
“I do not wish to know,” Gian-Luca told him, hot with embarrassment and shame.
“You are so discreet—” gulped the tearful Padrone. “I would not tell anyone but you—”
The Padrona came back, having powdered her nose, and they went for a walk by the river. She was still very silent, still very aloof; she walked primly between Gian-Luca and her husband, taking the latter’s arm. On the feeble pretext of showing her a boat, Gian-Luca got her away. The Padrone, scarcely seeming to notice, strolled on down the towpath alone.
“Signora, are you angry with me?” whispered Gian-Luca.
“Of course not,” she answered, smiling; but she looked straight passed him along the river, as one will look who is bored.
Words failed him. He suddenly seized her hand which he pressed and tried to retain; he felt that he must die of loving at that moment unless she would let him express it. He glanced at the unconscious back of the Padrone—the Padrone did not turn his head.
“I love you so terribly!” gasped Gian-Luca; “I love you so terribly, signora!”
“Be quiet!” she said, wrenching her hand away; “I will not tolerate this folly.” And turning, she hurried after her husband, leaving Gian-Luca to follow.
For the rest of
