I + 

One evening that June the Signora Rocca looked up from her sewing and said: “What a deplorable thing is pride, and how right I was when I warned the Bosellis not to send Gian-Luca to that heathenish Board School.” + 

Rocca took off his spectacles and swore, beyond which he vouchsafed no comment, so his wife continued: “I am sorry for Gian-Luca, as a Christian that is my duty⁠—but as the English say, and it is a good saying, ‘Pride cometh before a fall.’ I do not see what he has to be proud of, considering his unfortunate birth; however, it is clear that he sets himself above us; does he ever come here to see us these days? He does not, he treats us as though we were dirt, he is getting too big for his breeches!” + 

Rocca, for once, sympathized with his wife. Her words had opened the vials or his wrath so that he thumped the table; large angry thumps he inflicted on the table, as though he were thumping Gian-Luca. + 

“Giurabaccaccio! you speak truly,” said Rocca, “we are not good enough any more! Imagine it, a fellow that I dandled as an infant, a fellow to whom I had to give fruit-drops because he so feared my small goats! It is impudent indeed the way Gian-Luca treats me, I who fought at Custozza. I did not play waiter in an Officers’ Mess! No, no, I was only a poor, common soldier; I killed men in those days, not scraggy French chickens⁠—but then I was only a soldier!” Rocca spoke in great bitterness of heart, not for nearly five months had Gian-Luca been near him, and now, Maddalena would never come either⁠—grown proud, no doubt, like her husband. + 

Rocca was so angry that he went to see Teresa in order to tell her about it: “That grandson of yours has become swollen-headed, he ignores his old friends, he gives himself airs, he is what the English call ‘snob.’ My wife is offended and I am offended at the manner in which he treats us. We are humble but proud. I am only a butcher, but I fought in the battle of Custozza!” + 

Teresa shrugged her shoulders: “My excellent Rocca, I am not the keeper of my grandson⁠—he never comes here, I know nothing about him, and now his wife does not come either. Perhaps he has become what the English call ‘snob,’ or perhaps he is just very busy⁠—Millo tells me they are all very busy at the Doric⁠—but whatever it is I am busy myself, much too busy to run after Gian-Luca.” + 

“Only a fool throws away his old friends,” muttered Rocca as he turned to leave her. “As for you, I consider that he owes you a duty, in our country the family tie is sacred, and only a fool would copy these English, who care nothing for family ties.” + 

“That is so,” she agreed, “but on the other hand, only a fool would allow sentiment to stand in the way of his business. I do not resent the fact that my grandson is too proud or too busy to bother about me⁠—since I am too busy to bother about him, why should I feel resentment?” + 

But if Rocca was angry and Teresa indifferent, Mario and Rosa were wounded; so deeply wounded that they looked at each other and their kindly brown eyes filled with tears. + 

“He does not love us any more,” sighed Rosa, while Mario shook his head sadly. + 

“Yet he drank of your milk⁠—it is strange, my Rosa, for they say that much love flows in with the milk that is drawn from a woman’s breast⁠—” + 

Poor Mario was deeply depressed this summer, and he had good cause for depression, for now he was no longer the headwaiter of the Capo; his triumph had been short-lived, and his fall the more bitter because of that short-lived triumph. + 

The Padrone had said quite pleasantly one morning: “I have just engaged a headwaiter. Now that we have our full staff back again, and no more lazy, imbecile women, the Padrona and I think the time has arrived to have a headwaiter at the Capo. I shall have to reduce your wages, of course⁠—that will be only fair⁠—but even so you will be getting more money than you dreamt of before the war. Then again, there is always the question of your lameness, my wife was speaking of it only last week: ‘It is dreadful to see how old Mario limps, we must get a headwaiter,’ she said.” + 

Mario had stood with his mouth slightly open and his napkin drooping from his hand, for whenever the Padrone mentioned his lameness he certainly felt very old. He had been quite unable to trust himself to speak, so had hobbled away to the pantry; and there he had started biting his nails⁠—what could he do but start biting his nails? Give notice? Ma che! who else would engage him? He was only an old lame mule. + 

It was terribly hard when it came to telling Rosa, who naturally shed a few tears; “Geppe dead, and Gian-Luca so proud and now this⁠—” she whimpered, mopping her eyes. But then she noticed her husband’s grey hair, nearly white it had gone at the temples, and all that was brave in her leapt to his defense, the kind, patient creature that he was! “It is scandalous, you look younger than ever!” she lied. “And as for your grey hair, I like it; it is very becoming, it gives you distinction, a headwaiter looks better with grey hair.” + 

And this obvious falsehood really consoled him, at all events for the moment, since the hearts of some men are the hearts of small children⁠—especially when they ache badly. + 

Nerone, however, was not nearly so tactful. “It is all that infernal bunion!” he shouted. “Why do you not get the damned thing cut off? Are there no hospitals in England?” + 

But at such a terrific suggestion as this, Mario turned very pale: “I do not like operations,” he babbled, “one cannot know what they will do to one’s body; one is helpless like a pig about to be slaughtered. I have heard that they wish to experiment on one, I have heard the most terrible things⁠—” + 

In his fear he began to plead for his bunion: “No, no, Babbo; no, no, I have had him for years⁠—I will paint him with iodine night and morning, I will get some new boots many sizes too big, I will try to limp less⁠—it is only a habit, one gets into the habit of limping⁠—” + 

“Fool!” bawled Nerone. “They cut off my leg, and the students amused themselves with it! Did I care if the students played football with my leg? Well then, why need you care what they do with your bunion? Sacramento! one would think you were proud of the thing! Perhaps they would put it to float in a bottle, and then you could keep it in your bedroom!” + 

After which Nerone must mourn his own fate; he would have to stay in England, he declared. How could he give up his miserable business when his daughter would obviously starve? In vain did they both try to reassure him; Mario was not so ill-paid, there were no children now⁠—why, Berta was quite rich, with her Albert promoted to buyer⁠—there was no need to worry, there was no need to stay, Nerone could go when he pleased. Of course he must go if he still felt so homesick⁠—poor Babbo, of course he must go! But Nerone shook his head and glared hotly at Mario, which was certainly rather unfair, for it was not the thought of his daughter that held him, but those pretty silver shillings that winked back from the till; prolific past all expectations they were being, because of the Italian exchange. + 

There was someone, however, who could never do wrong, according to old Nerone, and this was Gian-Luca, whom he loved more than ever for the sake of his dead friend Fabio. He said to Rosa: “You make a great fuss, always sniveling and dabbing your eyes⁠—Dio Santo! One would think that Gian-Luca had been hanged, whereas he is only trying to make money. He is making good money, and so he has no time to come paying you foolish visits. But apart from all this, he is not well, I think, that is why I called on Maddalena. As for Rocca, I have told him quite plainly that he lies when he says that Gian-Luca has grown proud. That Rocca is making me sick with his talk of his courage, and his wounds, and his battles. Custozza, ma che! that was all very well, but my grandson died on the Isonzo! Leave Gian-Luca alone, he will come home to roost, he will want to see his old Nerone. Did he not call me ‘Nonno’ that day, and make Fabio so terribly angry?” + 

“Magari,” murmured Rosa, which meant nothing or all things, according as you chose to interpret. + 

Meanwhile Gian-Luca still held aloof, feeling strangely unwilling to see them. They would talk, about eating and food and the Doric. Oh, he knew them, they thought about nothing but food, they were almost as bad as Millo. When he got his day off at the end of June, he wanted to spend it alone, but of course Maddalena must begin about Rosa⁠—she was always reproaching him now about Rosa whom he had forbidden her to visit. + 

She said precisely what he had expected: “Do let us go and see Rosa⁠—she is very sad, caro, she misses her Geppe, and you are her foster-son.” + 

“Dio!” he complained, “must I never forget that I drank of that good woman’s milk? I do not wish to see Rosa or the others. I am tired, I am not getting up at all this morning, do leave me in peace, mia donna.” + 

She left him, and he lay in bed trying to doze; he was feeling very weak, he discovered. He had noticed lately that when he stopped working, his body ran down like a clock. At half-past one Maddalena brought his dinner all neatly arranged on a tray. He sat up in bed and glared at it frowning. + 

“Is it not good?” she inquired with a sigh. “I have tried to cook everything simply.” + 

“Ma si!” he muttered, “it is probably good, but do not stand watching, Maddalena. How can a man eat his food when you watch every morsel he puts into his mouth?” + 

So she went down again to her own lonely meal, which was little enough to her liking, being cooked as the English cook most things, in water, and never a touch of good butter with the beans or the dreary-faced boiled potatoes. And as she sat eating the unappetizing fare she remembered her father’s trattoria, and from this her thoughts strayed to the far-off Campagna, and then she felt homesick, terribly homesick⁠—very lonely she felt and unhappy. For the longing to live among her own people had been growing in Maddalena lately, the longing for blue sky and wide, quiet places, where the sheep all wore little bells. She would think of that wonderful day when Our Lord had left His Footprint in stone, and would wonder if He too had loved the Campagna⁠—if indeed that might not well have been Our Lord’s reason for blessing the humble stone. Then her heart would begin to yearn over Gian-Luca, who laughed when she spoke of such things⁠—perhaps if she got him away to the sunshine he too might receive the blessing of faith. Some day she would show him that Footprint in stone, after which he must surely believe. + 