Thus it was that the Doric buckled on its armor and girded its loins for battle; while Millo assured his Board of Directors, that if all Europe crumbled yet the Doric should stand as the emblem of perfection in restaurants.
VI
Teresa, at the Casa Boselli, eyed her husband with open disfavor, for Fabio was growing more futile every day—he had taken to sitting about in the parlor holding his head in his hands.
“Already the transport is so slow,” he would mutter; “what will it be like later on? Already the Germans are attacking the food ships—what can we do without food?”
And Fabio was right, there were many little luxuries that looked like disappearing from the price-list—those fat, green, globular snails for instance. No one had time to go hunting snails, they were too busy hunting Germans.
At moments now he gave way altogether. “We are done, we are finished!” he wept.
Then Teresa remembered how much they owed the bank. The moratorium had saved them for a time, but now the bank was demanding higher interest, or failing that, repayment of the loan, and she did not blame the bank either. The Casa Boselli was dipped to the hilt, the leases of both shops had been pledged as security; if she could not meet the interest then the bank must take action, and all in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, there might be no Casa Boselli. But Teresa had not fought against grief and shame, and even her God, for nothing.
“Coward!” she said, looking with scorn at her husband. “You call yourself a man and you weep like a child! Have we not got our macaroni factory? Is not the Doric and many another restaurant clamoring more loudly than ever for our paste? To hear you one would think we were reduced to black-beetles; and suppose we were, I would pickle them with capers, I would surely contrive to make them the fashion, rather then let our business go bankrupt.” And her fierce eyes scorched up the old man’s tears, so that he dared not go on weeping.
Nerone had a great consolation in life, since everyone was buying cigarettes for the soldiers; but his first kind impulse on Geppe’s return was fast giving place to indignation, for Geppe was more useless than ever in the shop, in addition to which he now bragged.
“Here is no life for a soldier,” he would say; “when I was in the army I could outmarch them all, and as for my shooting there was nothing to beat it! A man smokes tobacco, he does not sell it.” And this when Nerone, persuaded at last, was actually paying him wages!
Once again their quarrels resounded through the house, more violent than ever, now that Geppe was older.
“I have got a dog for a grandson,” said Nerone; “a lazy, insolent, lousy dog. What have I done to deserve it?”
And in the very middle of all the confusion, who should turn up but Berta with her twins.
“I’m going to make shells for Albert,” announced Berta. “My Albert’s enlisted, and the least I can do is to make ammunition for the poor old dear.” So she left the twins for her mother to look after, quite forgetting that they had been made for Albert, who much preferred them to shells.
Well, now there were babies again in the house, and rather fussy little babies. Poor Rosa, grown fat and a trifle breathless, found herself running up and down with bottles, trying first this patent mixture then that, in order to pander to their fancies. She who had come to the enviable age when the hips may grow larger and larger, she who had nursed Gian-Luca and reared him, then Geppe in addition to the inconsiderate Berta, must now perforce rear a pair of outraged twins, who preferred death it seemed, to the bottle. And Mario, who seldom protested these days, bore their colic-rent nights without a murmur; while Nerone, after storming and threatening to drown them, could never resist playing with Berta’s offspring, because in his heart he adored all babies, whether they were English or Italian.
VI
I
In spite of many doubts and contradictory statements, of party politics for and against, Italy came into the war. Then it was that from the windows near Coldbath Square, and from Aunt Ottavia’s windows in the square itself, there appeared as though by magic, strips of green, white and red; little flags, like humble hands stretched out towards the mother country from the poverty and squalor of her namesake. In Old Compton Street, however, might be seen two, splendid banners, one on Rocca’s shop, the other on Nerone’s; while the Casa Boselli, that displayed the Allied emblems, now added yet another to the group above the door. Teresa’s heart leapt with a sudden, fierce pride, then sank with a dreadful sense of fear; for how could she hope to obtain provisions—all those strange, delicious things that had made her shop so famous—if the country that provided the bulk of her stock might itself be faced with starvation?
She was careful to hide these fears from Fabio, but Fabio had fears of his own; he knew quite as well as Teresa could know what this might mean to their business. But although his hands shook as he put up the flag, and his old cheeks were paler than usual, he lifted a fold of the flag and kissed it, for nature is stronger than naturalization.
Mario and Rosa looked at their son, and Mario said: “It is hard to be a father—now if I were your brother we could fight together, we could share the hardship, the honor and the glory. If only I were not too old, Geppe!”
Nerone was like a creature possessed; Rosa became almost anxious about him.
“Guarda!” he exclaimed; “my very matches march!”
He stumped around the shop and up and down the street, talking volubly and loudly to
