III
Gian-Luca still found consolation in his books, he still read the “Gioia della Luce,” and now Ugo Doria had written a new poem, an epic of peace and of peaceful things, of vineyards and hillsides and valleys. It had come to Gian-Luca like a breath of sweet air, like a cool hand laid on the forehead. He said to Maddalena:
“When I read Doria’s words I can almost believe in the Spirit—I can almost believe in your God, Maddalena, for that is how Doria writes sometimes—as though he wrote with his spirit.”
One day he went off to see the Librarian, taking the poem in his pocket. “Have you read it?” he demanded. “It is wonderful, sublime—it is equal to the ‘Gioia della Luce.’ ”
The Librarian shook his head. “No,” he said slowly; “I am sick unto death of books.”
Gian-Luca stared: “You are tired of your books? But I thought you loved books as I do.”
“A man may change—” the Librarian said softly, “perhaps every man must change.”
Then Gian-Luca was silent because he felt frightened, terribly frightened of change. But presently he said:
“A man must not change, he might lose himself in the process!”
“Would that matter very much?” inquired the Librarian. “Suppose he should find something better.”
“He is mad!” thought Gian-Luca. “He is obviously mad!” And he wished that he had not come. “It must be the shock of those boys getting killed within a week of each other.”
“Do you still care for books and food and stomachs?” the Librarian asked him gravely. “I am disappointed in books myself, such a lot of them seem to suggest indigestion—a kind of deranged mental stomach.”
“I care very much indeed,” said Gian-Luca, and his voice was loud and aggressive; “I care for the things that I know to be real; I cannot afford to be a dreamer like you. I am just a headwaiter at the Doric.”
“I know nothing so inexpensive as dreams—” said the little Librarian, smiling.
But Gian-Luca did not smile: “He is quite mad,” he mused; “I suppose they keep him on out of pity!”