“There, there,” she soothed, “it is all right, piccino.” And as though he himself were a child, she rocked him till he fell asleep again in her arms.
V
I
Gian-Luca was ill on the following morning, too ill to go to the Doric.
“I think you have caught a chill,” said Maddalena.
And he nodded: “Si, si—it is a chill.”
He was patient, letting her minister to him, letting her wash his hands and face, letting her give him those simple old remedies so dear to her peasant’s soul. His pale eyes followed her round the room, wherever she went they followed; and always they held a look of surprise, as though they were seeing this grave, simple woman for the first time, and seeing her, marveled. And this poignant new seeing had little in common with the stately beauty of her body; her gracious body was only a cloak beneath which lay the suffering heart of Maddalena—that was what he seemed to be seeing.
He said: “You are very unhappy, Maddalena. Is it I who have made you unhappy?”
“If you would only get well—” she murmured. “If you would only try to eat—”
Then Gian-Luca shook his head: “Come here, Maddalena; come here and stand by the bed.”
And she went to him slowly, turning her face, for she could not steady her lips.
He caught hold of her hand: “It is not that, Maddalena, it cannot be only my illness—your heart feels so empty, so horribly empty—you are lonely because of our unborn children, and because there is something lacking in me, something that I cannot give you.”
“No, no!” she protested. “No, no, Gian-Luca.” But her voice was heavy with tears.
And hearing that voice he sighed to himself and stared down at her trustful hand.
“It has always been that, Maddalena,” he said slowly. “I laid my loneliness on you; from the first day we met I have forced you to bear it—and yet that was not quite enough, it seems, for I have remained very lonely.” Then he said: “You were made for great loving, Maddalena—for great simple primitive loving; for the kind of love that knows no ambition, no anger, no bitterness, no doubts and no fears, that is selfless because of itself. Such a great love as that would have filled up your heart, so that if you had had no children, you would still have possessed the most complete fulfilment that life is capable of giving—”
He paused, for now she was kissing his forehead, and her arms were around his shoulders.
“Get well—get well, my beloved,” she whispered. “You are my only fulfilment, Gian-Luca, my little child and my husband.”
But Gian-Luca looked into Maddalena’s eyes, so faithful they were but so hopeless; the desolate eyes of a mothering doe whose young has been slain by the hunter.
“You have very much to forgive,” he said gravely. “Can you forgive, Maddalena?”
And she answered: “If I have much to forgive, then may God forgive me as I forgive you, and love me as I love you, Gian-Luca.”
II
To please her he drank up the good beef tea, and the milk and wine that she brought him; and when she took him his simple meals, he made her stand by him and watch while he ate, hoping to reassure her.
“Give me a little more fish,” he would say, then look up quickly at her face; and because of her smile he would praise the fish: “It is good, I must be getting much better, Maddalena, already I feel much better.”
By the fourth day of nursing he was certainly stronger; he was able to get up and dress. He was able to smoke too, an excellent sign, as he pointed out to his wife. And by the next morning he had grown rather restless, he wished to go out, he told her, he wanted to find that woman again, and the child who had lost his eyes.
“But why, amore?” Maddalena protested. “But why, when they made you so sad?”
“I must find out much more about them,” he answered. “Do not worry, I shall not be long.”
And something told her that he had better go, so she sighed and nodded her head.
In Theobald’s Road he got into a taxi and drove to New Oxford Street, stopping the cab when it came to the corner where the woman had sold him matches. He paid off the driver and stood looking about him, but the woman and her child were not there; and this gave him a little shock for some reason, so that he felt afraid. He went up and spoke to the policeman on point duty, describing the pair to him minutely.
But the policeman shook his head: “I’ve not seen them, sir, I don’t ever remember having seen them.”
Then Gian-Luca began to urge him to remember. “The child had no eyes,” he repeated. “Of course you have seen them—a child with no eyes—there cannot be many such children?”
“Well,” said the policeman, “maybe I have seen them, we’ve a good many beggars round here—they don’t always stop in the same place for long—but I can’t recall them at the moment.”
Then Gian-Luca inquired at a shop on the corner, but there also they could not remember. The street was so crowded, there were so many people—a woman selling matches with a little blind boy? Yes, they thought they had seen her; or was it a man? They were sorry, they could not remember. Still intent on his search, Gian-Luca walked on until he came to High Holborn. There were several other beggars, one or two who sold matches, but not the beggars he wanted.
“If I could only find them,” he muttered, “if I could only find them!” Not that he knew what he would say if he found them—what could anyone say?
And strangely now he had turned in the direction of home, still feeling afraid; for his eyes were full
