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 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—” + 

IV + 

The season dragged on, and whenever he could Gian-Luca went home to Maddalena. He clung to her now like a frightened child, eating without complaint the food that she prepared, in order to keep up his strength. Sometimes he would try to express his great sadness but his words would be inadequate and vague. + 

“I saw something horrible today,” he might begin, “a poor wretch in khaki grinding an organ⁠—” + 

“They are often frauds,” Maddalena would tell him. + 

Then he would stammer and would want to explain that this in itself was a reason for pity, only the words would fail him. He wanted to tell her about Jane Coram and the thing that cowered behind her eyes. + 

“Maddalena, it is lonely because of the crowds⁠—” + 

“But why must she drink as she does?” she would ask him. + 

Why indeed? He would stare at his wife, bewildered; somewhere deep down, he thought he knew the answer, but it always seemed to evade him. + 

There were days when his sadness infected Maddalena, descending upon her like a cloud, when all that she did seemed futile and useless; her very prayers lacked conviction at such times, as though there was no one to hear her. Then it was that in a kind of self-preservation she would speak to Gian-Luca of her Church. + 

“If only you belonged to the Church,” she would tell him, “you would know peace, amore, you would come to know God.” And the sound of her own words would comfort a little. “You would surely come to know God!” + 

He always listened patiently to her while she praised and glorified her faith, listened because of the burden he inflicted in making her share his sadness. But when she had finished he would shake his head: + 

“I cannot find God, Maddalena.” + 

“You have never looked for Him,” she would say reproachfully. + 

“Ma si,” he would tell her. “I have looked for Him lately, only I cannot find Him, and if I should find Him, Maddalena, I should have many questions to ask.” + 

“The Church would answer your questions, Gian-Luca, is it not God’s own mouthpiece?” + 

Then Gian-Luca would smile: “I do not feel God as needing a mouthpiece in that sense, piccina⁠—I feel Him as being too vast and aloof⁠—perhaps that is the trouble; your God is too aloof to notice poor, everyday things.” + 

But Gian-Luca was beginning to notice more and more those pitiful everyday things, so that now he could not pass one of the afflicted without a strong thought of pity. Sometimes it would be a long-suffering beggar who must earn a living by displaying the shame of a wretched, misshapen body; sometimes one of those dwarfed, consequential creatures who elbowed their way through the crowded streets with a kind of pathetic and impudent defiance, born of a conscious grotesqueness; sometimes it would be a man out of work, bearing military ribbons on his coat, or another performing some mean, dreary labor in the remnants of glorious khaki. And Gian-Luca would want to comfort such people, not weakly, but with the whole strength of his being, only he did not know how to set about it; he would feel inadequate, self-conscious and shy, and when he stopped to give money to a beggar he would flush with a curious feeling of shame, and as like as not would speak brusquely: “Be quiet, do not thank me!”⁠—for the thanks of the poor filled him with a sense of outrage. He had not yet learnt that Compassion, the divine, has a sister whose name is Gratitude, and that each must form part of the perfect whole that alone is capable of healing. + 

V + 

Gian-Luca made his peace with the clan very simply, by going one day to see them. And because of the deep sadness that they saw in his eyes, their warm hearts forgave him those months of neglect⁠—only Teresa’s heart held aloof, for her heart remembered his mother. Looking at Teresa, so stern, so much alone, Gian-Luca made one more effort to win her, returning in spirit to the days of his childhood, but offering now the pity of a man to this arrogant, defiant old woman. + 

He said: “I would so much like you to love me⁠—is it impossible, Nonna? I would like you to want me, to need me a little⁠—not because of my advice about the Casa Boselli, you have Millo to help you with that now⁠—but because I am your grandson, the only living creature upon whom you have any real claim.” Then Teresa stood up and confronted her grandson, and they looked at each other eye to eye: “I have only loved once in my life, Gian-Luca. Only one creature have I loved in my life, and that was my daughter Olga.” + 

His arrogant underlip shot out a little, and he felt a quick impulse to break her: “I am the child of your child,” he said hotly; “I am the flesh and blood of that Olga for whose sake you always hate me.” + 

“I do not hate you,” she answered quietly; “I neither love you nor hate you; but to me you have been as alien flesh; can I help that, Gian-Luca? I respect you, I am even proud of your success, but to me you are alien flesh. I saw your mother agonize and die in order that you might have life.” Then Gian-Luca nodded slowly, and his arrogant mouth grew gentle as he silently accepted her decision, for the unassuageable grief of the old stared at him out of those hard black eyes. He seemed to be seeing the heart of Teresa, a bitter, unforgiving but desolate heart⁠—all bleeding it was, with the sorrow and shame that his life had called into being. + 

“It must be as you wish,” he said very gravely, and turning away he left her; but it seemed to Gian-Luca that her sorrow went with him and followed him into the street. + 

VI + 

It was a very good thing that Gian-Luca’s under-waiters were a well-trained lot of young men, that indeed he had trained most of them himself to the standard required by the Doric. For the eyes of a headwaiter must only be all-seeing in purely material matters, and once they begin to see beneath the surface their owner is no longer really proficient, and this was what had happened to Gian-Luca. Gian-Luca the implacable, the perfect machine, with those long years of training behind him, was gradually becoming a mere obstruction. His voice would sound vague when he gave his orders, and the orders themselves would be uncertain, so that Daniele must ask him to repeat them, while Roberto the watchful would whisper to Giovanni: + 

“He is stranger than ever today, amico; we had better look out for trouble.” + 

And trouble there was on more than one occasion, especially with the Milady who was little and lovely and who liked her good food, and whose table Gian-Luca might forget to reserve, because he was worrying over Jane Coram or some other unfortunate creature. + 

“What is the matter?” the waiters asked each other. “He is going to pieces, our Signor Gian-Luca. He no longer takes command; a man cannot be certain of receiving an order correctly.” + 

But because of the splendid headwaiter that he had been, they rallied in something like pity. They who had borne his hard yoke for so long, whose smallest misdeeds had been severely censured, who had never expected mercy from Gian-Luca, must now show mercy and hide him from Millo; and in this they were led by the little Roberto⁠—he was loyal, the little Roberto. But it could not go on, and one day in September, Millo sent for Gian-Luca. + 

“Deceive Signor Millo? Ma che!” sighed Roberto, “he has eyes in the back of his head!” + 

“In the back of his head, do you say!” snapped Giovanni, who remembered his own short period of transgression; “he has even more eyes than a peacock’s tail! I am sorry for Signor Gian-Luca.” + 

Millo said: “Will you please to sit down, Gian-Luca, so that we can have a little talk? It appears to me that you work badly lately, indeed I may say that you do not work at all. For the most part you stand about doing nothing, and when you do make some sort of an effort you only confuse your waiters. Moreover, I have noticed a strange thing about you⁠—you look at our clients with pity. Now nobody comes to the Doric to be pitied; for the most part they come to amuse their stomachs, they come to forget the necessity to pity themselves or anyone else. Your waiters have been trying to shield you, I know, hoping that Millo would not see; but Millo sees all things pertaining to the Doric, and he sees that the restaurant is not what it was, and that clients grow angry because their orders are neglected⁠—is not that so, Gian-Luca?” + 

Gian-Luca bowed slightly, and Millo went on to check off a list of complaints. Milady’s table, it had twice been forgotten; the Duchess’s supper, she had ordered oysters and had been given smoked salmon instead; Jane Coram’s brandy⁠—moderation in all things, but Jane had not yet signed the pledge⁠—Gian-Luca omitted to order her brandy if Roberto was busy, and this made her fretful, and when she was fretful she was like a spoilt child, complaining of all sorts of things. And then there was Gian-Luca’s uncontrolled face, which looked pitiful and gloomy by turns. He no longer smiled, and all clients expected a perpetual smile from their waiter. + 

“Dio Santo!” exclaimed Millo, “they pay for our smiles, and we make them pay high at the Doric! A smile will often cover an omission, a smile will often make good food taste better, a smile is the best appetizer in the world, and do not forget that, Gian-Luca.” + 

Gian-Luca nodded but found nothing to reply, for Millo was speaking the truth. + 

“Here we have no time for moods,” he was saying; “the man who feels moody is a nuisance at the Doric; you have been a fine waiter, but now you are a nuisance. What is the reason, Gian-Luca?” + 

Gian-Luca said slowly: “It is something, signore, that I find it hard to explain⁠—a kind of great sadness has come over me lately⁠—” And he looked at Millo with his strange light eyes as though he felt sorry for him also. + 

Millo frowned and tapped on the desk with his fingers: “Your nerves are out of order,” he said firmly. “What you need is a rest; you have worked hard for years, you worked like ten men before you went to France, while possessing only one body.” He paused, then went on: “I have seen Maddalena. I went to see her last week, and I want you to go to my doctor at once; you will please go not later than tomorrow. I have spoken to Daniele, he can manage quite well, at all events he must manage,” and he scribbled something on a half-sheet of paper. “Here is the doctor’s address, Gian-Luca; I have made an appointment for tomorrow at eleven. In the evening I will come and see you and Maddalena⁠—I shall not expect you to come back to work until I have seen you again.” + 

VII + 

The next morning Gian-Luca went to see the doctor, who pronounced him to be suffering from a bad nervous breakdown. He was much too thin for a man of his height, his pulse was thready and unduly fast, he must eat nourishing food⁠—plenty of it, said the doctor⁠—the more he could eat the better. As for his depression, that was easily explained, it was simply the outcome of weakness. But overstrained nerves were not things to ignore, Gian-Luca must try to get some months of rest; a thorough change of air and scene was what he needed, but above all he must not worry. + 

“You know what I mean,” said the doctor soothingly; “get your mind off troubles, and don’t worry about lire. Go somewhere jolly, but don’t overdo things, and rest in the middle of the day.” + 

Gian-Luca thanked him, and received a prescription containing valerian and bromide. After which he was able to go home to Maddalena and assure her that he was quite sound. + 

VIII + 

In the evening Millo arrived as he had promised. + 

“Nerves⁠—all nerves⁠—as I told you,” he said kindly. “The doctor says that you need a long rest, at least three or four months, and I think he is right. While you are away I propose to pay your salary, you can look upon that as a retaining fee, Gian-Luca. And now I want to know where you two will go, have you made up your minds?” It seemed that they had not, so Millo continued: “Well I have a suggestion to make; you should go to Italy with Maddalena, you should give the blue sky and the sunshine a chance. After all, Gian-Luca, you are an Italian, and yet you have never seen our fine sunshine.” Then he laughed, “I too must try to have a breakdown, I have not been home for ten years!” + 

Gian-Luca thanked him, and Millo talked on in order to cheer Maddalena. It was not his way to do anything by halves, and once having made up his mind to be generous, he spared neither money nor kindness. “You will see, he will come back a lion, Maddalena!” he said cheerfully, patting her shoulder. + 

After he had gone they looked at each other: “Italy!” murmured Maddalena; and all the ineffable longing of the exile was in that name as she spoke it. Her anxious brown eyes were pleading with Gian-Luca, asking him to take her home. + 

He nodded: “Yes, we will go, Maddalena⁠—” + 

“Blessed be God!” she whispered. + 

They sat on discussing ways and means. It was nearly the end of September. Maddalena said they could be ready in two weeks, they would board with her cousins who lived near the coast on the Riviera di Levante. Her cousins were always writing, these days, urging her to go out and see them; they were anxious, it seemed, to know Gian-Luca, of whom she herself wrote so often. It would not be Rome and the wonderful Campagna, but then, it would be cheaper than Rome; if they went to her cousins they could live very cheaply, especially with the exchange. + 

“I would like to go to your cousins,” said Gian-Luca, “they live in the country away from people; that is what I long for, to get away from people, there are too many people in the world.” + 

Then Maddalena told him about her cousins; he had heard it all many times before, but he let her talk on because it made her happy, since it was talking of home. Her cousins lived in a good-sized farmhouse on the hills behind Levanto. Sisto was a person of some importance, fattore, he was, to Marchese Sabelli. An excellent position to be fattore to such a noble estate. Lidia his wife was a simple creature, but kind, oh! intensely kind. They had a fine son in the Bersaglieri, and a younger son who must now be sixteen, and who helped his mother on the farm. They would get there in time for part of the vendemmia; the Marchese owned most of the neighboring vineyards⁠—all day they would sit on the hillside in the sunshine⁠—they would hear the peasants laughing and singing as they stooped to gather the grapes. She talked on and on, and Gian-Luca, as he listened, began to catch something of her joy, so that his eyes grew as bright as Maddalena’s. + 

“I have not yet seen our country,” he said thoughtfully, and as he said this he felt suddenly hopeful. “A man might find peace in Italy,” he murmured; “do you think that I shall find peace?” + 

Then Maddalena laughed in her infinite contentment; “Is it not your own soil, Gian-Luca? You are homesick for the sunshine and the big blue sky; long ago I told you that your eyes looked homesick; that was when I first met you, amore⁠—” + 

“Yes,” he answered, “I think you are right⁠—I think I have always been homesick; only⁠—” he hesitated a moment, “only I have never felt perfectly certain where I am homesick for, Maddalena.” + 

Then she kissed him and began to play with his hair, twisting it as though he were a child: “For us there is only one home that we long for, and that is the home of our people, beloved.” + 

And because he so very much wished to believe her, he kissed her too, acquiescing. + 