“Dio! It is here?” exclaimed Riccardo. “If only our Italy comes in! Surely our country will fight against Austria? Think of it, amico, we have waited so long, and now at last we get our chance!”
Gian-Luca was silent, and this angered Riccardo. “Do you not feel for our country?” he demanded.
“It is not my country,” said Gian-Luca sullenly. “I am told that it is not my country.”
III
Maddalena was waiting up for her husband; she came into the hall when she heard his latchkey. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then she put her arms round him and kissed him.
“This is a terrible thing—” said Maddalena; “a solemn and a terrible thing.”
“Terrible perhaps, but splendid for those who may fight for the country they spring from, mia donna—if Italy comes into the war—”
“Then Geppe will go,” she said thinking of Rosa.
He laughed bitterly: “Gia, then Geppe will go, and Riccardo who is still just young enough to fight, and Alano who is almost too young, and all the others—but not Gian-Luca; he will not be wanted, he may feel he is Italian, but who was his father? They will say: ‘You have not got a name, Gian-Luca, we are very much afraid that your mother became English, so as you are a bastard, you too became English.’ Dio!” he shouted, stamping like a child. “Dio! I almost hate the English!”
She surveyed him very sorrowfully for a moment, then she said: “This country has sheltered you, amore.” And as she said it she felt afraid, realizing the meaning of her words.
“No country has ever sheltered me,” he retorted; “what I am I have made myself, Maddalena. I owe nothing to any man on earth but myself.” Then all of a sudden he wanted to cry. “But I wish I were the little Alano—” he muttered.
“Italy may not come in,” she consoled.
“Oh, yes, she will surely come in,” he told her. “There is something in my blood tonight that tells me that my people will fight—but it will not make any difference to me; I am English in the eyes of the law.”
“But what if this England should need you?” she faltered; and all her woman’s weakness urged her to silence, for nothing was steadfast at that moment but her soul.
Gian-Luca’s mouth grew arrogant and angry. “If England needs me she can fetch me,” said Gian-Luca.
IV
Six weeks later Geppe managed to get home, his military service having come to an end. He swaggered into the shop one evening; he had not let them know of his prospective arrival.
“Ah,” said Nerone, “so you have returned!” But he could not quite keep the excitement from his voice. “Rosa!” he called, “here is someone to see us—a fine young soldier from home!”
Rosa came hurrying down the stairs. “Is it my Geppe?” she almost screamed, and seeing that it was she burst into tears and wept in the arms of her son.
Geppe was very much what he had been, except that he now wore a miniature moustache and carried his shoulders better. His eyes were bloodshot from sun and wind, and his hands, which his mother examined anxiously, were covered with corns in the place of blisters; for the rest he was plump and still rather flabby in spite of two years in the army. But to Rosa, gazing at him through her tears, he seemed a thing of rare beauty.
Nerone said: “I will put up the shutters, and then we can talk in peace.” And this from Nerone was a great concession, it meant that he welcomed his grandson home, that the hatchet was buried for the moment.
Geppe helped himself to a cigarette from an open box on the counter. “Italy will not come in,” he announced, though so far no one had asked for his opinion.
However, Nerone paused for a moment in his task of putting up the shutters. “It is surely you who must know,” he said agreeably, “since you are just from the army.”
The shop closed for the night, they retired to the room that was full of Nerone’s birds. Geppe promptly woke up the avadavats by puffing smoke into their cage.
“I think I will go and fetch Fabio,” remarked Nerone; “also Rocca may like to come round.”
Alone with her son, Rosa stroked his large hand. “Mio bimbo—” she murmured. “Mio bimbo.”
“Where is papa?” inquired Geppe, feeling that his father ought to be among his admirers.
“At the Capo, tesoro. He works very hard, and they have not yet raised his wages—”
“As for that,” laughed Geppe, “I know all about hard work! In the army we do not think waiters work hard—however, that is as it may be.” He crossed one leg manfully over the other, and groped for a fresh cigarette.
“I will go into the shop and buy you a packet,” said his mother, looking in her purse for a coin that she would afterwards give to Nerone.
Presently Nerone came stumping back, accompanied by Fabio and Rocca.
“Buona sera, Capitano!” said Rocca jovially, and he slapped Geppe’s shoulder with tremendous vigor.
“This is splendid, splendid!” smiled Fabio.
“And now,” said Nerone, “we would hear all the news. How is our beloved country looking?”
“Very hot at the moment, very ugly and hot,” muttered Geppe, whose shoulder was aching.
“And what of the war?” inquired anxious Fabio. “Do you think that Italy will fight?”
“Neanche per sogno!” Geppe answered promptly. “There is no chance of such a thing.”
“What is that?” demanded Rocca. “What is that you say? Perhaps I have not heard correctly.”
But Geppe, nothing daunted, repeated his words, and he added: “Why should we fight?”
“Giurabbaccaccio!” began Rocca, very red.
“Now do let us have peace, here, at any rate,” pleaded Fabio.
“Peace!” thundered Rocca. “You ask me for peace! I, who have known
