V + 

“You grow sulky,” said Mario to his foster-son; “what is the matter? You no longer work gladly.” + 

“I am tired of the Capo,” Gian-Luca told him; “I think I must find a better job.” + 

“You are young and a fool,” snapped Mario crossly. “I too have been foolish enough in my day, but never, no, never such a big fool as you are.” + 

“I am tired of the Capo,” Gian-Luca repeated, pretending not to understand. + 

It was all very lonely, more lonely by far than anything he had yet known. In the past he had been lonely but without the Padrona, whereas now he was utterly lonely with her; and to find oneself lonely with the creature one loves is to plumb the full depths of desolation. There was no one he could talk to, Mario did not sympathize and Schmidt was a low-minded fellow; as for Fabio and Teresa⁠—at the mere thought of them Gian-Luca could not help laughing. + 

He still had his books, and long into the night he would read the “Gioia della Luce.” All poetry hurt him a little it was true, but that poem could comfort while it hurt. There were many other poems which he reread in that book, some of them spiritual and placid⁠—they might have been written by a saint or a seer; but then would come others, crude outpourings of passion that he had not understood as a child. Like the “Gioia della Luce,” they partook of the greatness that, carnal or spiritual, belonged to the genius of their writer, Ugo Doria. + 

“A very curious book,” thought Gian-Luca; “I must read some more of this poet’s work.” So one day he made his way to Hatchard’s, where he heard that they sold foreign books. + 

“Ugo Doria?” said the salesman, smiling at Gian-Luca. “Oh, yes, he is getting quite famous. Will you have him in English or in Italian? We have all the translations of his earlier works, but his new book of essays has not been translated yet.” + 

“I can only afford one book,” said Gian-Luca; “I will take the essays in Italian.” And he went to the Capo with the book in his pocket, in case he could read it between luncheon and dinner. + 

Gian-Luca could not know that the technique was flawless, that each word had been tried and weighed and considered, that side by side with his vast inspiration the writer possessed the mind of an explorer⁠—an explorer in the country of language. He could not know that all Italy was saying that Doria wrote with his pen dipped in gold dust, that never since Dante had there lived such a poet, and moreover, that his prose was even finer than his verse. But he did know that he, the sorrowful waiter, who could not write poems though his heart felt full to breaking, found solace and comparative comfort while he read, because of the beautiful lilt of the words. While he read he could almost forget the Padrona⁠— + 

“And so,” thought Gian-Luca, “he must be very great. I would like to see him, I would like to serve him, I myself would like to pour out his wine⁠—I wish that he would come to the Capo.” + 

But Doria never came to the Capo⁠—he happened to be living in Rome at that moment; and then, after all, he could only write⁠—he might make one forget the Padrona for a while, but he could not soften her heart. + 