Adam’s Breed

not make up for the longing that was in her. She never confided her fears to her husband, held back by a painful pride; he did not particularly want her child, he had said that children cost money. Yet since she had no little son to love, she must perforce love Gian-Luca for two, so Maddalena loved him for the man that was in him, but also for the child that is in every man⁠—she loved him as a wife and as a mother. There had always been this dual element in her love, but now something new had begun to creep in⁠—a kind of grave desperation. Gian-Luca would sometimes force his mind from the Doric in order to consider her more closely; the gravity of her love had begun to oppress him, it made him feel in a vague, uneasy way that his wife was no longer happy.

“What is the matter?” he would think to himself; “am I not perfectly faithful to this woman? Do I not give her all?”

But Maddalena knew that he had never given all, and now in addition she feared that she might be childless; the little Gian-Luca who would make his father love her, held aloof and refused to be born. She tried to hide the ache in her heart from the world, yet everyone suspected it, it seemed.

“You spoil him! You spoil him!” chanted Aunt Ottavia; “you are making a perfect fool of the man!”

“One should never let a husband feel too certain of one,” smiled the wise, blue-eyed Padrona.

“He was always a strange little boy⁠—” Rosa told her. “Always a strange, self-sufficient little boy; but at bottom he is all pure gold, the Gian-Luca. Do I not know it, who nursed him?”

To them all Maddalena would reply the same thing: “I have nothing to complain of in my husband.”

And Gian-Luca often said: “I have an excellent wife, I have nothing to complain of in my wife.”

Yet Maddalena had moments of sheer naked terror, when she fancied that they were drifting apart.

“What shall I do if I lose him?” she would think.

And then perhaps she would love him unwisely, so that even Gian-Luca who wanted to be loved would grow just a little impatient.

“Ma no!” he would say, “I have not got a headache, I am very well indeed, and my shoes are not wet. Now run away, sweetheart, and leave me in peace⁠—I would like to read for an hour.”

But she could not leave him. She could not let him go even for an hour to his book. While he read she would sit there stroking his knee, wishing with all her heart that he were small, so that she might carry him in her arms. In the end he would have to shut up his book and give himself over to her loving; and when he had done this he would feel less a man, and she would know that he felt less a man, and the knowledge would be anguish to her. Then, with the sudden inconsequence of woman, she herself would feel helpless and small; she would long to burst out crying in his arms, so that he might pet her and comfort. But no tears were ever permitted to fall, because she was patient and strong. Patient as peasant women are patient who have long submitted themselves to their men, asking little in return; strong as those bygone Legions were strong, who had flung the straight, white roads across the world, and had trodden them unafraid. No, Maddalena’s eyes would be dry, but in her unhappiness she must needs push him from her⁠—in the end she would have to let him go after all, till the pain of his nearness subsided.

“But what is the matter?” he would say, bewildered. “What have I done, Maddalena?”

And she would not dare to answer that question, lest in the answering she should become weak⁠—weak and unable to shield him. Finally he would feel aggrieved and unhappy; angry, too, as the blind may feel angry, who stumble and hurt themselves in their blindness. He would go back to work with the uncomfortable conviction that he did not understand his wife, that he did not quite understand himself either. Surely he had all that he had longed for in the past? Companionship, love⁠—oh, a great deal of love⁠—as for children, well, perhaps they would come along later; at present he was very well pleased to be free from the tax they would be on his purse.

His work would be waiting, there would be much to do, a hundred little duties to perform; and gradually, as the evening wore on, his mind would be gathered back into the Doric. He would pass to and fro among the diners, the distinguished-looking men, the beautiful women⁠—all feeling just a little more brilliant than usual because of the good food and wine. Like a general and his chief of staff, he and Roberto would hurry their waiters to the kitchens and cellars, to those vast armories that contained all the weapons wherewith to slay lassitude and boredom. Back they would come, the neat, black-and-white army, very well equipped to slay lassitude and boredom; very well equipped to slay other things, too, such as a passing scruple. Gian-Luca would watch with experienced eyes for a self-controlled face to relax; he would listen for the subtle change in a voice, in a laugh, for the voices and laughter to mingle; he would know just how long a time should elapse between the popping of a cork and the coming of the miracle. If all went well in his octagon room he would feel a glow of satisfaction; he would feel a passing affection for his diners, who were doing him credit, and via him the Doric, forgetting that they looked upon him as a machine, or not caring if he remembered. And when he got home there would be Maddalena ready to wake up and talk; a placid