VI
I
In spite of many doubts and contradictory statements, of party politics for and against, Italy came into the war. Then it was that from the windows near Coldbath Square, and from Aunt Ottavia’s windows in the square itself, there appeared as though by magic, strips of green, white and red; little flags, like humble hands stretched out towards the mother country from the poverty and squalor of her namesake. In Old Compton Street, however, might be seen two, splendid banners, one on Rocca’s shop, the other on Nerone’s; while the Casa Boselli, that displayed the Allied emblems, now added yet another to the group above the door. Teresa’s heart leapt with a sudden, fierce pride, then sank with a dreadful sense of fear; for how could she hope to obtain provisions—all those strange, delicious things that had made her shop so famous—if the country that provided the bulk of her stock might itself be faced with starvation?
She was careful to hide these fears from Fabio, but Fabio had fears of his own; he knew quite as well as Teresa could know what this might mean to their business. But although his hands shook as he put up the flag, and his old cheeks were paler than usual, he lifted a fold of the flag and kissed it, for nature is stronger than naturalization.
Mario and Rosa looked at their son, and Mario said: “It is hard to be a father—now if I were your brother we could fight together, we could share the hardship, the honor and the glory. If only I were not too old, Geppe!”
Nerone was like a creature possessed; Rosa became almost anxious about him.
“Guarda!” he exclaimed; “my very matches march!”
He stumped around the shop and up and down the street, talking volubly and loudly to any who would listen, giving packets of Italian cigarettes to passing Tommies—yes, actually giving away his tobacco.
“Now you are safe, we are all safe,” he told them; “Italy will win the war!”
“Papa, you are wearing yourself out,” protested Rosa; “a man of your age to behave so—it is foolish!”
“Today I am not an old man,” said Nerone; “today I am Italy, the eternal.”
Only Geppe, of them all, was strangely pale and silent, moving as though in a dream. His loose-lipped mouth sagged a little at the corners; sagged as it had done when he was a baby, and Rosa had taken away her hand.
“Eat, tesoro, my pretty,” urged his mother at dinner noticing his untouched food; “those who are going to protect us must eat, so that they may become strong.”
“I think that my stomach is upset,” muttered Geppe; “I do not feel very hungry.”
Rosa was constantly forcing back her tears, trying to be Spartan and splendid; trying to rejoice that she had a son to give to her country in its need. Whenever his eyes were upon her she smiled, but her smile was not reassuring; it got on Geppe’s nerves; as soon as he could he made an excuse and went out. He did not return until late that night, and when he came in at past twelve o’clock, Rosa, who was waiting up anxiously for him, knew that her son had been drinking.
II
Two days later Geppe received the order to rejoin his regiment at once. He sat staring helplessly down at the paper where it lay on the breakfast-table. Through his poor, shrinking mind surged a chaos of ideas. He would tell them all that he dared not go; he would rush to the docks and get aboard a ship bound for some neutral port; he would fling himself on his grandfather’s mercy and beg and implore him to hide him; he would cling to his mother and surely she would help him, perhaps if he cried she would find a way to help him as she had done when he was little; he would go to the chemist and buy enough strychnine; he could say that it was needed to kill a wounded cat—anything, anything, anything but war! He had heard of the sort of things that happened in war on his journey home through France. That little, innocent bit of paper, how could it mean so much? If he tore it to pieces that would not help him, for the thing was possessed of life everlasting; destroy it and there was its damnable spirit waiting to drive and hound him. No good, no good, he must make a clean breast, he must speak now, revealing his shame, he must say to them all: “For Christ’s sake, help me! I am sick with the fear of going.”
He looked up, his mouth was already half open; then he met all those terrible eyes. Six terrible eyes in three terrible faces—terrible because so trustful, so gentle; so intolerably, pathetically proud. Nerone’s old eyes almost patient and loving, because his grandson was a soldier; Mario’s eyes very big, very round, and full to the brim with the pride of his manhood, because he had made a man; Rosa’s eyes all swimming in tears, but with something like sunlight behind them—Rosa’s motherhood looking out through the storm, making the beauty of a rainbow round her—a rainbow, the emblem of promise.
Geppe’s own eyes dropped again to the paper which he folded and put in his pocket; and something of Rosa’s glory reached him, so that when next he looked up at them all his trembling mouth was smiling. He nodded and managed to throw back his shoulders, managed to light a cigarette; not knowing in the least why he did these things, but suddenly feeling that they had to be done.
So that was how Geppe went to the war. In less than a week he was gone. Nerone could brag to Rocca of his grandson, and Mario could hold his head high at the Capo. Per Bacco! Why not? Was he not a proud father? Had he not every reason to be proud?
Only Rosa, bombarding the saints with her prayers, knew that her son was afraid. She did not implore them to give Geppe life, but courage in the face of death.
III
Italy was calling her children home; very soon three waiters had gone from the Capo and only Mario remained.
In the place of his waiters the Padrone put women, for men were increasingly difficult to come by, and those who had had a little experience could find work at the larger restaurants. These women were careless and inefficient and the wages they demanded were high; but someone must carry the food to the tables, and somehow the Capo must keep its doors open. The Padrone swore terrible oaths in his heart, but outwardly he submitted. So at last Mario found himself a headwaiter with his salary actually raised, for the harassed Padrone was almost reduced to looking upon Mario as a godsend.
“At least, I have you, my Mario,” he said; “you at least know the ways of the Capo. Dio! These women are enough to drive one mad, but we two must work together like brothers.”
And Mario was so touched that he almost wept—such kindness, such praise from the Padrone!
“I always knew it must come in the end,” he told Nerone; “today you behold in me the headwaiter of the Capo di Monte. Everything comes to him who has patience.”
IV
Roberto, the wine-waiter, was the first to leave the Doric, and before he went he said to Gian-Luca: “Now I may realize the dream of my life, now I may learn how to fly. As a child I would watch the birds in the air, I would think: ‘If only I too had wings.’—Well, now my country shall provide me with wings; I shall ask to join the Air Service.”
Gian-Luca looked down at the little man with interest; so Roberto was longing to fly. Roberto had never shown signs of any longings; he had just been very neat, very skillful, very quick, with a most retentive memory for a vintage; and all the time he had been longing for wings, longing to conquer the air—perhaps he had longed to fly out of the Doric—what a curious thing was life.
A few weeks later went Giovanni, the trancheur, and he too confided in Gian-Luca. The war was loosening all tongues it seemed.
“I hope I may never come back—” said Giovanni. “I shall try to get killed very soon.”
“Madonna! But why?” inquired Gian-Luca, startled. “You are such a wonderful trancheur, Giovanni; Millo will certainly keep your place open—what have you got to complain of?”
Giovanni looked away: “It is not that, my friend, I know I am an excellent trancheur—but when a man has a great pain in his heart—”
“Not that girl who married the porter, surely!”
“Ma si, my Anna,” Giovanni nodded gravely.
Gian-Luca stared incredulously at him—all this sorrow it seemed, over Anna. Anna had not even been attractive, a red-haired girl with the eyes of a fox—and after the first not a sigh from Giovanni, not a tremor of that long, thin, accurate knife. What a curious thing was love.
V
One day soon after Giovanni’s departure, Gian-Luca was sent for by Millo. Millo was looking both tired and worried.
“Now we are going to lose Riccardo,” he said; “this is a fearful war!” He stared at Gian-Luca in silence for a moment, and then: “It is you who shall take his place, I will make you the head of the restaurant, with an increase of salary, of course.”
Gian-Luca thought: “The large restaurant—ah, so I get it at last!” And he knew that he had been hoping for this, ever since Italy had joined in the war.
It seemed like a kind of revenge on life, this sudden rise in his fortunes—a revenge on Riccardo, whom Italy wanted. His heart was beating with fierce resentment, for one by one they were all going home, these neat, quiet waiters of the Doric; and one by one they would cease to be waiters, they would look upon splendid, terrible things, with the eyes of men who were brothers.
“My God! If only I could go with them—” he thought, “if only I too belonged—” But his face was impassive as he stood before Millo, and his voice when he spoke was quite calm. He said: “And the octagon room, signore? Who will take charge of my octagon room? It is very important, I have my special clients, I am used to their little fads.”
“Do you mean that you want that too?” inquired Millo, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
“That is what I should very much like,” smiled Gian-Luca. “I should like to undertake both rooms.”
Millo considered him thoughtfully, and his tolerant eyes were a little puzzled. There was something he did not understand about Gian-Luca, something very angry yet coldly ambitious, he had only suspected it of late. He could feel the hard, calculating thing as he sat there, and the nearness of it oppressed him. For even to Millo, engrossed in the Doric, came a sudden, unexpected revulsion.
“You have your ambitions, I observe,” he said quietly; “oh, well, it is an ill wind that blows no one any good!”
“As you say, signore, a very ill wind—you are right, I have my ambitions.”
“Sit down,” ordered Millo, “we must talk this thing out, we must see if your idea will work. You would wish to retain your old salary of course, to which I am to add Riccardo’s—for you know and I know just how valuable you are, but above all you know it—is not that so, Gian-Luca?”
“Magari,” murmured Gian-Luca softly.
“Very well. But have you considered what this will mean? You will have a motley crew of waiters under you, not the well-trained men that you have been used to—and soon you may have a few irritable clients, for our food is already less good than it has been. At the same time I will not lower my flag one instant before I must, therefore you will have to be answerable to me for the standard of two rooms instead of one. I have known a long time that of all my headwaiters you are undoubtedly the most competent, but no man can do more than his best, Gian-Luca; are you sure that your best will content me?”
“If it does not, signore, you have only to speak—”
“Very well,” said Millo, “we will try it and see. Riccardo is going in ten days’ time.”
Riccardo smiled rather unpleasantly when Gian-Luca told him the news. “So at last you jump into my shoes,” he remarked. “It pays well to feel that one has no country.”
Gian-Luca was patient. “Perhaps—” he replied. He could very well afford not to lose his temper.
“Oh, yes, but surely!” retorted Riccardo. “However, I have a feeling in my bones that I am not going to get killed.”
“In that case you may get your old job back again, unless I should prove to be the better man, Riccardo.”
“And if you should prove to be the better man?”
“Then it is Millo who will have to decide. One cannot have everything in this world—you have a country and I have your job, that seems to me perfectly fair.”
Riccardo turned on his heel and left him. “He means to oust me if he can,” he thought bitterly. “He means to make himself indispensable to Millo, he has always wanted to oust me.”
Gian-Luca was thinking: “If I were Riccardo, I would not be caring so much about my job, but since I am Gian-Luca, then I care very much—a man must care about something—”
VI
And now Gian-Luca worked as never before, for he felt himself second only to Millo. There was no assistant manager above him, for Millo had always preferred to stand alone. He was not unlike a certain type of statesman who abrogates office after office to himself, mistrustful of other people’s abilities. Oh, yes, there were accountants and clerks and cashiers, but what did they know about the ways of clients? Oh, yes, there was all that vast army below stairs, but who but Gian-Luca was responsible now for the standard of the dishes they served? Giuliano’s grillroom counted for little compared with the two restaurants. Giuliano was gentle if dishes went wrong, as they sometimes did now that the best chefs were gone, but not so Gian-Luca—he was difficult to please.
“Take this outrage back to the kitchen,” he would order. “I asked for pommes soufflées, not greasy goloshes—and get that Sauce Béarnaise remade, and be quick! I have clients waiting to be fed.”
Gian-Luca was cordially hated these days by all save Millo and his clients; but he kept the flag flying against terrific odds—he had pity neither for himself nor for others. Through all the stress and anxiety of war the Doric still stood forth proudly supreme, so that men home on leave said:
“Let’s go to the Doric; it’s the only place now where the service is decent and where you still get decent food.”
And they came in their dozens, these men home on leave, most of them still very young; some of them whole but some of them maimed, with eyes that no longer saw very clearly, or a leg that dragged between crutches.
“Hallo, Gian-Luca! Still here?” they would say, glad to find an old friend. “Well, thank the Lord, no one’s grabbed you yet—yes, all right, if you say so—it sounds jolly good—and bring us a bottle of champagne.” For they thought of him always as an Italian who was waiting to be called to his class.
Then Gian-Luca would see that they got food and wine, would see that they feasted on the fat of the Doric, for even against his will he must like them—they had seemed very different from this in the old days. Sometimes he would want to hurry away as he had that night when war was declared, but now it would be because he liked them too well. All the manhood that was in him would leap out towards them, towards the thing that they stood for. He would feel a sudden, imperative impulse to seize some brown-faced young soldier by the hand, to say:
“Take me along; I too want to fight.” But then he would remember himself and smile bitterly: “These English are not my people,” he would think. “Why should I go until I am taken? Here I am quickly making my fortune—well, why not? I am surely poorer than they are, for I have not even got a country.”
VII
Another seven months of the war dragged by, and then came conscription in England. At first they took only the unmarried men which, however, did not deceive Millo. That February he said to Gian-Luca:
“I am going to lose you quite soon—the question is, how shall I replace you when it happens?”
Gian-Luca answered. “I will stay until they fetch me.” And his mouth looked arrogant and stubborn.
“You have served me faithfully and well,” Millo told him. “I do not forget good service. You have worked like ten men to keep your rooms going, and for that I want to say that I am grateful—well, I think that is all, Gian-Luca.”
That March came the news that Riccardo had been killed. Riccardo would never come back to the Doric, in spite of that feeling in his bones.
“So now I am sure of his place,” thought Gian-Luca. He felt no particular pity for Riccardo—after all, Riccardo had died for his country, and could there be a better way to die?
But Millo was secretly grieved in his heart, for the little Alano was also dead. Oh, but many who had faithfully served the Doric would never serve it again. Day after day alone in his office sat Millo, thinking always of food; struggling with problems of luncheons and dinners, of dwindling provisions and a dwindling staff. Secretly grieved in his heart, yes, perhaps; but doggedly determined to see the thing through; for war or no war, there were people to feed, people who still expected to be fed very much as they always had been.
VIII
When Gian-Luca was conscripted in the June of that year he was conscious of a great relief; thankful that the moment had arrived at last when he no longer had any choice in the matter.
He said to Maddalena: “I am ready to go, I am ready to fight side by side with the English. There have been days lately when I have felt that I must fight. As a woman you may not understand; it is something that lies hidden in all men, I think—a kind of primitive instinct.”
And she answered: “I am only a woman, amore, and my heart is terribly afraid—and yet I am glad to think that you go—so perhaps I do understand.”
Then his mind became practical again from long habit, and he smiled contentedly at her: “I have managed to make certain of my job before going, my job will be waiting for me when I come back. I am lucky, for now I can go to the war with Millo tucked away in my pocket; he will never forget the work I have done, what the Doric owes to Gian-Luca.”
But a few days later he was greatly disturbed to find himself placed in the Army Service Corps. They said that with so much experience as a waiter, he might prove very useful to them.
“This is not what I want at all,” he protested. “I wish to go out and fight.”
“Everyone must go where they are most useful now,” was all the reply he got.
“If you had your little fancies why didn’t you enlist in the early days?” inquired a comrade-in-arms. “In the early days a man could pick and choose, now it’s just: ‘Do as you’re told.’ ” And he added, “But you’re not an Englishman, are you? Aren’t you an Italian or something?”
“Whatever I am, I am good enough to fight,” said Gian-Luca, flushing darkly.
“Well, don’t lose your shirt!” advised his acquaintance. “When we’re all out in France you can get yourself transferred.”
“Can I?” inquired Gian-Luca eagerly.
“Yes, of course, it’s easy enough out there.”
Gian-Luca’s spirits began to revive, and he made a joke of the thing to Maddalena. “Of course it is all nonsense!” he told her laughing; “I shall get transferred quite easily, they say. I am young and strong, they have only to see me.” And then he surveyed himself gravely in the glass, passing his hands down his slim, wiry flanks, thumping his broad, deep chest.
Maddalena hid the joy in her heart—her heart that had been so terribly afraid—and because she was a woman who loved very greatly, she sent up a quick little prayer to the Madonna that Gian-Luca might never get transferred. For most of that night she prayed to the Madonna and now every morning and evening she would pray, for this seemed like a sign of God’s infinite mercy.
Gian-Luca went off to his training in high spirits, so sure did he feel of his transfer. As the camp was near London he got home fairly often, and Maddalena marveled at the new gayness of him, he seemed to have grown so much younger. He would stroll about smoking the traditional Gold Flake, making fun of his duties in the Army Service Corps.
“It is not precisely the Doric!” he told her, and then he laughed, remembering the food, “and yet it is rather like, too—,” he added, “and that is what makes it so funny. However, I shall not remain long at this job, there is other work waiting out there in France.”
He was thoughtful and gentle with her at this time, considering her plans in his absence. “You had better stay here where you are,” he advised. “You will have the separation allowance, but in any case there is plenty of money tucked away for you at the bank.”
“But that is for your future,” she protested, astonished. “That is our nest-egg for your restaurant.”
“The future will take care of itself,” he said glibly. “Be saving, of course, but meanwhile you must live; I do not want to think of your going without things—there is plenty of money at the bank.”
One day he strolled into the public library and there he found the Librarian. He had not seen him now for nearly a year.
“Hallo!” said Gian-Luca, then he stopped abruptly—the Librarian’s hair was quite white.
The Librarian said: “So you are in khaki? Have you made up your mind to go?”
“The Government made it up for me,” smiled Gian-Luca.
“Oh, of course,” said the Librarian. “Conscription—I forgot.”
He looked very small as he stood at his desk, the more so as he now stooped badly.
“What news of your sons?” Gian-Luca inquired.
“No news—” said the Librarian. “They can’t send me news now.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were killed six months ago within a week of each other.”
There ensued a painful interval of silence, then Gian-Luca stammered: “I am sorry.”
“Oh, yes—and I am sorry too,” said his friend. “After all, I did love them better than books—does that surprise you, Gian-Luca?” He did not seem to expect an answer, for he went on to talk about the war. He discussed it as though it were some curious volume whose contents had left him bewildered. “I do try, but I can’t understand it—” he said. “Why must human beings do such things? A lovely world—a wonderful world—and all broken up and trodden to pieces—yet when my two boys said they wished to enlist, it was I who encouraged them to go. It was I who felt a deep hatred of the Germans—a far deeper hatred than either of my sons—my sons went out from a sense of duty, but I would have gone to kill—and that’s funny too, in a man of my sort who has spent all his life among peaceful things like books.”
“But I feel as you do!” Gian-Luca said quickly. “Surely we must all feel as you do.”
“Yet now I don’t hate any more—” said the Librarian, “because they have killed both my sons, I can’t hate—that seems very queer to me—”
“It is queer,” thought Gian-Luca. “He is suffering from shock.” And as soon as he could he made his escape; that white hair had begun to depress him. “I must go,” he said suddenly, holding out his hand. “I am only on very short leave.”
“Well, God bless you—” muttered the little Librarian, and he turned again to his books.
IX
There came an afternoon a few months later when the real goodbyes must be said. Gian-Luca and his wife went to Old Compton Street, where the clan had gathered itself together as it did on all momentous occasions.
Fabio wept as he kissed Gian-Luca, remembering that night many years ago when his cheek had been pressed against an unwanted child—“Little Gian-Luca come to Nonno,” he had said. So now, because he was growing very old, he must needs shed a few facile tears. Rosa was there with Berta’s twins whom she had not dared to leave at home, for like the other young things whom Rosa had cared for, the twins had become unruly. Nerone was there, with twenty-four packets of good Macedonia which he pressed upon Gian-Luca; and after a little Mario came in, then Rocca with his signora.
Nerone grumbled: “The English are slow, and as for the French, they are slower. Moreover the French stole those horses from St. Mark’s—I consider it a pity that we fight for the French. However,” he added, “it cannot be helped, and thank God we have Italy now; Italy will quickly finish up the war. Ma che! What a wonderful country!” And then he produced a snapshot of Geppe, which he carried about in his pocket. “Here is young Italy!” said Nerone proudly. “Does not the boy look magnificent?”
Rocca said: “Give them a thrust from me, a good thrust in the belly, Gian-Luca, and remember to say as your bayonet goes in: ‘This is a present from Rocca!’ ”
Mario, whose eyes were moist with emotion, dared not speak because of the lump in his throat. Teresa was silent because, since the war, she so seldom spoke at all.
In the end Rosa threw her arms round Gian-Luca and her tears splashed on his tunic, just as they had splashed long ago on to his head, spoiling his appetite for breakfast. Everyone promised to be at the station to see the troop train depart; everyone kissed Gian-Luca on both cheeks, then seized both his hands and kissed him again—all save Teresa who kissed him on the forehead, coldly, as though she kissed because she must. And at that Maddalena’s heart swelled with anger, and finding Gian-Luca’s hand she pressed it. She, who was so gentle, hated old Teresa at that moment for a woman of iron and steel, for a woman without the bowels of compassion, who all through Gian-Luca’s life had denied him.
But as they walked home together that evening, Gian-Luca said: “Listen, my Maddalena, she grows old, the Padrona of the Casa Boselli—they are very short-handed in the shop, I notice. Will you not go and help Nonna sometimes? I think she would be very glad.”
Maddalena marveled at his infinite patience, the patience that could keep him loyal to Teresa.
“I admire her so much,” he was saying thoughtfully, “she is rather a splendid old woman, I think—and what a fine head she still has for business!”
Who could deny him so simple a request? Certainly not Maddalena at that moment. “All that you wish I will do,” she promised, glancing at his calm, happy face in the lamplight—so calm, so happy, in spite of the fact that in three days’ time he would leave her.