Adam’s Breed

of that awful new seeing, so that he must pity the straining horses, and the men who crouched by their dingy loads, urging those straining horses. The stench of the traffic seemed more horrible than ever, and the throb and the roar of engines. In and out of the turmoil dashed tired, anxious people⁠—across the road limped a foolhardy cripple, swinging a perilous crutch. There were babies with incredibly old, suffering faces, bearing the sins of their fathers; there were women with blemished, disease-stricken bodies, bearing the sins of their men; there were men with blotched skins and small, hating eyes, eyes that were looking for vengeance; there were children who were full of a crude, horrid wisdom, learnt in the school of degradation. And then there were all the more prosperous citizens, wearing their liveries of business. Grey clothes, grey faces, grey minds, grey spirits; that blank, grey stare of preoccupation with the unrelieved greyness of the office. Such excellent, hardworking people these latter, such neat little wheels in the machine; so proud of the order to which they belonged, so contented⁠—yes, that was the worst of it, so contented to be neat little wheels in the machine. And then there were the idle who passed in their motors, which were constantly checked by the traffic. Inquiring faces would look through the windows; what a bore it all was, they wanted to get on! They wanted to go quickly, to go more and more quickly; they had nothing to do so they wanted to go quickly, in order the better to do it. And then there was Gian-Luca, seeing sadness in these things, disintegrating with pity, so that the years swept backwards to childhood, so that he muttered the words of a child: “Oh poor, oh poor, oh poor!”

What did it matter if the things that he saw were the work and the will of these people; all the hideous folly the work of their hands, all the hideous injustice the will of their brains; it was there, they had done it, they had built up the monster, and had called him Civilization. And now they were sweating great gouts of blood, or so it seemed to Gian-Luca⁠—rich and poor, idlers, workers, they were all sweating blood. Ay, and the patient beasts that must serve them, all sweating great gouts of blood.

He quickened his steps because of Maddalena, who would surely be watching and waiting; a quiet, patient woman, herself so much a victim; and his pity overflowed when he thought of Maddalena to whom he could never give love. If he could have realized anything to pray to he would surely have prayed at that moment; he would surely have prayed that he might love Maddalena, but his mind and his lips were both strangers to prayer. He could not find God in this anguish of pity, he could not find himself, he was utterly lost; he could not find high-sounding, resonant phrases, for only the words of his childhood came to him: “Oh poor, oh poor, oh poor!”

III

By the end of a week he was back at the Doric, a thin, grave man who now stooped slightly, and whose hands were not quite steady.

Roberto exclaimed in surprise when he saw him: “Ma, signore, have you been very ill?”

And Gian-Luca was silent; had he been very ill? Perhaps⁠—he was not quite sure. As he stood there looking at the anxious Roberto, he forgot all about his wine-waiter’s brave deeds; he could think of nothing but the little man’s eyes; such round, bright eyes like those of a bird, like the eyes of Nerone’s caged skylarks. But Gian-Luca must turn away to his duties, he must superintend all the preparations for the day, so that when the clients began to arrive he would be in his place by the door. The business of his life had begun for him again, the interminable business of feeding.

“Gian-Luca!”

“Si, signore⁠—”

“Do send me Roberto.”

“Subito, signore, I will tell him.”

“Maître d’hotel!”

“Permesso⁠—”

“I don’t like this salad!”

“I will change it at once, signore.”

And now there was no need to watch his clients, for he saw too much without watching; and all that he saw he seemed to see clearly, with a ruthless but pitiful vision. He saw Jane Coram, with her body of an athlete, and her eyes of a homesick monkey; a monkey that must prance to the tunes of the band, that must take off its cap and grimace and gibber so that fools might find pleasure in its antics. Her face looked sallow and slightly thickened as she sat in a patch of sunlight; and as though the presence of the sunlight confused her, she called for Gian-Luca to draw the silk curtains in order to shut it away. She was rather untidy today, Jane Coram, and her mouth was a little awry, for her uncertain hand had slipped with the lipstick, marring the shape of her lips. Behind those eyes of a homesick monkey Gian-Luca perceived something cowering; something that feared and hated the crowds, something that shrank from noise and applause, something that wanted to be all alone⁠—the soul of a Solitary. And seeing, he could not order the brandy. He said to Roberto: “She has drunk much already, they all have, that lot, poor devils! Go slowly.”

And Roberto answered: “I will do what I can, but you know what they are, they must have their brandy, otherwise they will go somewhere else.”

Then Gian-Luca grew infinitely sorrowful and humble as he looked about him at his clients. He had set himself up as their tempter and their judge, he who was surely the least among them, for had he not grabbed at their money with both hands, seeking to grow rich through their weakness? And now he must serve them in anguish of spirit, a dreadful, unwilling serving.

“Gian-Luca!”

“Signorina?”

“Another double-brandy!”

Then that horrible: “Si, signorina⁠—”