‘AH, Sybert, you’re just the man I wanted to see!’ Melville came up the
walk of the palazzo occupied by the American ambassador as Sybert,
emerging from the door, paused on the top step to draw on his gloves.
‘In that case,’ the latter returned, ‘it’s well you didn’t come five
minutes later, or I should have been lost to the world for the
afternoon. What’s up?’
‘Nothing serious. Can you spare me a few moments’ talk? I won’t take up
your time if you are in a hurry.’
‘Not in the least. I’m entirely at your disposal. Nothing on for the
afternoon, and I was preparing to loaf.’
The two turned back into the house and crossed the hall to the
ambassador’s private library. Melville closed the door and regarded his
companion a trifle quizzically. Sybert dropped into a chair, indicated
another, and pushed a box of cigars and some matches across the table;
then he looked up and caught Melville’s expression.
‘Well, what’s up?’ he asked again.
The consul-general selected a cigar with some deliberation, bit off the
end, and regarded it critically, while his smile broadened. ‘I have
just returned from the mass meeting of the foreign residents,’ he
remarked.
‘That should have been entertaining.’
‘It was,’ he admitted. ‘There was some spirited discussion as to the
best way of suppressing the riots.’
‘And how did they decide to do it?’
‘They have appointed a committee.’
‘Of course a committee!’ Sybert laughed. ‘And what is the committee to
do? Wait on the ministers and invite them to reconstruct their morals?
Ask the King to spend a little less money on the soldiers’ uniforms and
a little more on their rations?’
‘The Committee,’ said Melville, ‘is to raise money for food, and to
assist the government as far as possible in quieting the people and
suppressing the agitators.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Sybert.
‘And,’ he added, with his eye on the young man, ‘I have the honour of
informing you that you were made chairman.’
‘Oh, the devil!’
‘This is not an official notification,’ he pursued blandly; ‘but I
thought you’d like to hear the news.’
‘Who’s at the bottom of this? Why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you stop
them?’
‘I couldn’t very well; I was chairman of the meeting.’
Sybert’s usual easy nonchalance had vanished. He rose to his feet and
took one or two turns about the room.
‘I don’t see why I should be shoved into it—I wish some of these
officious fools would go back home, where they belong. I won’t serve on
any such committee; I’ll be hanged if I will! I’ll resign.’
‘Nonsense, Sybert; you can’t do that. It would be too marked. People
would think you had some reason for not wanting to serve. It was very
natural that your name should have occurred for the position; you have
lived in Rome longer than most of us, and are supposed to understand
the conditions and to be interested in good government.’
‘It puts me in a mighty queer position.’
‘I don’t see why.’ The elder man’s tone had grown cool. ‘They naturally
took it for granted that you, as well as the rest of us, would want to
have the riots suppressed and choke off any latent tendencies toward
revolution in this precious populace.’
‘It was the work of a lot of damned busybodies who wanted to see what I
would do.’
Melville suppressed a momentary smile. ‘However,’ he remarked, ‘I see
no reason why you should be so reluctant about serving in a good
cause—I don’t suppose you wish to see a revolution any more than the
rest of us.’
‘Heavens, no! It wouldn’t do any good; the government’s got the army to
back it; the revolutionists would only be sent to the galleys for their
trouble, and the police oppression would be worse than ever.’
He swung up and down the room a couple of times, and then pausing with
his hands in his pockets, stared moodily out of the window. Melville
smoked and watched him, a shade of uneasiness in his glance. Just what
position Laurence Sybert occupied in Rome—what unofficial position,
that is—was a mystery to the most of his friends. Melville understood
him as well as any one, with the exception of Howard Copley; but even
he was at times quite unprepared for the intimate knowledge Sybert
displayed in affairs which, on the surface, did not concern him. Sybert
was distinctly not a babbler, and this tendency toward being
close-mouthed had given rise to a vast amount of speculative interest
in his movements. He carried the reputation, among the foreign
residents, of knowing more about Italian politics than the premier
himself; and he further carried the reputation—whether deserved or
not—of mixing rather more deeply than was wise in the dark
undercurrent of the government.
And this particular spring the undercurrent was unusually dark and
dangerously swift. Young Italy had been sowing wild oats, and the crop
was ripening fast. It was a period of anxiety and disappointment for
those who had watched the country’s brave struggle for unity and
independence thirty years before. Victor Emmanuel, Cavour, and
Garibaldi had passed away; the patriots had retired and the politicians
had come in. A long period of over-speculation, of dishonesty and
incompetence, of wild building schemes and crushing taxes, had brought
the country’s credit to the lowest possible ebb. A series of
disgraceful bank scandals, involving men highest in the government, had
shaken the confidence of the people. The failure of the Italian colony
in Africa, and the heart-rending campaign against King Menelik and his
dervishes, with thousands of wounded conscripts sent back to their
homes, had carried the discontent to every corner of the kingdom. And
fast on the heels of this disaster had come a failure in the wheat
crop, with all its attendant horrors; while simultaneously the corner
in the American market was forcing up the price of foreign wheat to
twice its normal value.
It was a time when priests were recalling to the peasants the wrongs
the church had suffered; a time when the socialist presses were turning
out pamphlets containing plain truths plainly stated; a time when
investors refused to invest in government bonds, and even Italian
statesmen were beginning to look grave.
To the casual eyes of tourists the country was still as picturesquely,
raggedly gay as ever. There were perhaps more beggars on the church
steps, and their appeal for bread was a trifle more insistent; but for
people interested only in Italy’s galleries and ruins and shops the
changes were not marked. But those who did understand, who cared for
the future of the nation, who saw the seething below the surface, were
passing through a phase of disillusionment and doubt. And Laurence
Sybert was one who both understood and cared. He saw the direction in
which the country was drifting even better perhaps than the Italians
themselves. He looked on in a detached, more remote fashion, not so
swept by the current as those who were in the stream. But if he were
detached in fact—by accident of his American parentage and
citizenship—in feelings he was with the Italians heart and soul.
The consul-general remained some minutes silently studying the younger
man’s expressive back—irritation, obstinacy, something stronger,
appeared in every line of his squared shoulders—then he rose and
walked across to the window.
‘See here, Sybert,’ he said bluntly, ‘I’m your friend, and I don’t want
to see you doing anything foolish. I know where your sympathies are;
and if the rest of us looked into the matter with our eyes open, it’s
possible ours would be on the same side. But that’s neither here nor
there; we couldn’t do any good, and you can’t, either. You must think
of your own position—you are secretary of the American Embassy and
nephew of the ambassador. In common decency it won’t do to exhibit too
much sympathy with the enemies of the Italian government. You say
yourself that you don’t want to see a revolution. Then it’s your duty,
in the interests of law and order, to do all you can to suppress it.’
‘Oh, I’m willing to do all I can toward relieving the suffering and
quieting the people; but when it comes to playing the police spy and
getting these poor devils jailed for twenty years because they’ve
shouted, “Down with Savoy!” I refuse.’
Melville shrugged. ‘That part of the business can be left to the secret
police; they’re capable of handling it.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ Sybert growled.
‘Your business is merely to aid in pacifying the people and to raise
subscriptions for buying food. You are in with the wealthy foreigners,
and can get money out of them easier than most.’
‘I suppose that means I am to bleed Copley?’
‘I dare say he’ll be willing enough to give; it’s in his line. Of
course he’s a friend, and I don’t like to say anything. I know he had
nothing to do with getting up the wheat deal; but it’s all in the
family, and he won’t lose by it. The corner is playing the deuce with
Italy, and it’s his place to help a bit.’
‘What is playing the deuce with Italy is an extravagant government and
crushing taxes and dead industries. The wheat famine is bad enough; but
that isn’t the main trouble, and you know it as well as I do.’
‘The main trouble,’ his companion broke in sharply, ‘is the fact that
the priests and the anarchists and the socialists and every other sort
of meddling malcontent keep things so stirred up that the government is
forced into the stand it takes.’
Sybert whirled around from the window and faced him with black brows
and a sudden flaring of passion in his eyes. He opened his mouth to
speak, and then controlled himself and went on in a quiet,
half-sneering tone—
‘I suppose the socialists and priests and the rest of your malcontents
forced our late premier into office and kept him there. I suppose they
yoked Italy with the Triple Alliance and drove the soldiers into
Abyssinia to be butchered like hogs. I suppose they were at the bottom
of the bank scandals, and put the charity money into official pockets,
and let fifteen thousand peasants go mad with hunger last year—fifteen
thousand!——’ His voice suddenly broke, and he half-turned away. ‘Good
Lord, Melville, the poverty in Italy is something appalling!’
‘Yes, I dare say it is—but, just the same, that’s only one side of the
question. The country is new, and you can’t expect it to develop along
every line at once. The government has committed some very natural
blunders, but at the same time it has accomplished a vast amount of
good. It has united a lot of chaotic states, with different traditions
and different aims, into one organic whole; it has built up a modern
nation, with all the machinery of modern civilization, in an
incalculably short time. Of course the people have had to pay for it
with a good many deprivations—in every great political change there
are those who suffer; it’s inevitable. But the suffering is only
temporary, and the good is permanent. You’ve been keeping your eyes so
closely on passing events that you’re in danger of losing your
perspective.’
Sybert shrugged his shoulders, with a quick resumption of his usual
indifference.
‘We’ve had twenty-five years of United Italy, and what has it
accomplished?’ he demanded. ‘It’s built up one of the finest standing
armies in Europe, if you like; a lot of railroads it didn’t need; some
aqueducts and water-works, and a postal and telegraph system. It has
erected any number of gigantic public buildings, of theatres and
arcades and statues of Victor Emmanuel II; but what has it done for the
poor people beyond taxing them to pay for these things? What has it
done for Sicily and Sardinia, for the pellagra victims of the north,
for the half-starved peasants of the Agra Romana? Why does Sicily hold
the primacy of crime in Europe; why has emigration reached two hundred
thousand a year? Parliament votes five million lire for a palace of
justice, and lets a man be murdered in prison by his keepers without
the show of a trial. The government supports plenty of universities for
the sons of the rich, but where are the elementary schools for the
peasants? Certainly Italy’s a Great Power—if that’s all you want—and
her people can take their choice between emigrating and starving.’
‘Yes, it’s bad, I know; but that it’s quite as bad as you would have us
believe, I doubt. You’re a pessimist by conviction, Sybert. You won’t
look at the silver linings.’
‘The silver linings are pretty thin,’ he retorted. ‘Italian politics
have changed since the days of Victor Emmanuel and Cavour.’
‘That’s only natural. You could scarcely expect any nation to keep up
such a high pitch of patriotism as went to the making of United
Italy—the country’s settled down a bit, but the elements of strength
are still there.’
‘The country’s settled down a good bit,’ he agreed. ‘Oh, yes, I believe
myself—at least I hope—that it’s only a passing phase. The Italian
people have too much inherent strength to allow themselves to be
mastered long by corrupt politicians. But that the country is in pretty
low water now, and that the breakers are not far ahead, no one with his
eyes open can doubt. The parliament is wasteful and senseless and
dishonest, the taxes are crushing, the public debt is enormous, the
currency is debased. If such a government can’t take care of itself, I
don’t see that it’s the business of foreigners to help it.’
‘That is just the point, Sybert. The government can take care of itself
and it will. The foreigners, out of common humanity, ought to help the
people as much as they can.’
Sybert appeared to study Melville’s face for a few moments; then he
dropped his eyes and examined the floor.
‘This is a time for those in power to choose their way very carefully.
There are a good many discontented people, and the government is going
to have more of a pull than you think to hold its own—there’s
revolution in the air.’
Melville faced him squarely.
‘For goodness’ sake, Sybert, I don’t know how much influence you have,
or anything about it, but do what you can to keep things quiet. Of
course the government has made mistakes—as what government has not?
But until there’s something better to be substituted there’s no use
kicking. Plainly, the people are too ignorant to govern themselves, and
the House of Savoy is the only means of salvation.’
Sybert waved his hand impatiently.
‘I haven’t been trying to undermine the government, I assure you. I
know well enough that for a good many years to come Italy won’t have
anything better to offer, and all my influence with the Italians—which
naturally isn’t much—has been advice of the same nature. I know very
well that if any radical change were attempted, only anarchy would
result; so I counsel these poor starving beggars “patience” like a
skulking coward.’
‘Very well; I don’t see then why you have any objection to keeping on
with your counsel, and at the same time give them something to eat.’
‘It’s the looks of the thing—standing up openly on the side of the
authorities when I’m not with them in sympathy.’
‘It’s a long sight better for a person in your position than standing
up openly against the authorities.’
‘Oh, as for that, I’m thinking of resigning from the legation, and then
I’ll be free to do as I please.’
Melville laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
‘Sybert, you may resign from the legation, but you’re still your
uncle’s nephew. You can’t resign from that. Whatever you did would cast
discredit on him. He’s an old man, and he’s fond of you. Don’t be a
fool. An American has no business mixing up in these Italian broils;
Italy must work out her own salvation without the help of foreigners.
Garibaldi was right—“_Italia farà da se_.”’
‘“_Italia farà da se_,”’ he repeated. ‘I suppose it’s true enough.
Italy must in the end do for herself, and no outsider can be of any
help—but I shall at least have tried.’
‘My dear fellow, if you will let me speak plainly, the best thing you
can do for yourself and your family, for America and Italy, is, as you
say, to resign from the legation—and go home.’
‘Go home!’ Sybert raised his head, with a little laugh, but with a
flash underneath of the real self which he kept so carefully hidden
from the world. ‘I was born in Italy; I was brought up here, just as
little Gerald Copley is being brought up. I have lived here all my
life, except for half a dozen years or so while I was being educated.
All my interests, all my sympathies, are in Italy, and you ask me to
_go home_! I have no other home to go to. If you take Italy away from
me, I’m a man without a country.’
‘I’m in earnest, Sybert. Whether you like it or not, you’re an
American, and you can’t get away from it if you live here a hundred
years. You may talk Italian and look Italian, but you cannot _be_
Italian. A man’s nationality lies deeper than all externals. You’re an
American through and through, and it’s a pity you can’t be a little
proud of the fact. The only way in which there’s going to be any
progress in the world for a good long time to come is for Italians to
care for Italy and Americans for America. We aren’t ready just yet to
do away with national boundaries; and if we were, we should run up
against racial boundaries, which are still more unchangeable. America
is quite as good a country to care about as Italy—there are some who
think it’s better; it depends on the point of view.’
‘Oh, that’s true enough,’ Sybert returned, with a short laugh.
‘Everything in the world depends on one’s point of view; the worst
place is all right if you only choose to think so. I dare say hell
would be pleasurable enough to a salamander, but the point is—I’m not
a salamander.’
Melville shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned back to his seat.
‘There’s no use arguing with you, I know that. You’re wasting your
ability where it isn’t appreciated, but I suppose it’s nobody’s
business but your own. Some day you’ll see the truth yourself; and I
hope it won’t be too late. But now as to this committee business—for
your uncle’s sake you ought to carry it through. I will tell you
frankly—I imagine it isn’t news—that the Italian government has its
eye on you; and if you manage to get yourself arrested, rightly or
wrongly, for stirring up sedition, it will make an ugly story in the
papers. The editor and staff of the _Grido del Popolo_ were arrested
this morning. The police are opening telegrams and letters and watching
suspicious persons. You’d better step carefully.’
Sybert laughed, with a gesture of dissent. ‘There’s no danger about me.
The enthusiastic head of the Foreign Relief Committee is safe from
government persecution.’
‘You’ll act then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know—I’ll think it over. It’s a deuced hole to have got
into; though I suppose it is, as you say, about the only way to help.
No doubt I can raise money and distribute bread as well as another.’
‘Appoint Copley on a sub-committee. He’ll be glad to give.’
‘I don’t like to ask him. He doesn’t go in for alms; he’s all for
future—though in a time like this——’
‘In a time like this we’re all willing to step aside a bit. I’m glad
you’ve decided to work on the side of the government. It is, as things
stand, the only sensible thing to do.’
‘I haven’t decided yet. And I do not, as I told you before, care a rap
what becomes of the government. It’s the people I’m helping.’
‘It amounts to the same thing.’
‘Not in Italy.’
‘Oh, very well. You’re incorrigible. At least keep your opinions to
yourself.’
‘I’m not likely to shout them abroad under the present régime. And as
to this infernal committee—oh, well, I’ll think about it.’
‘Very well; think favourably. It’s the only way to help, remember—and
very good policy into the bargain. Some day, my boy, maybe you’ll grow
sensible. Good-bye.’
Sybert paced up and down the room for five or ten minutes after
Melville had left, and then picked up his hat and started out again.
Turning toward the Piazza Barberini, he strode along, scowling
unconsciously at the passers-by. He bowed mechanically to the people
who bowed to him. Along the Corso he met the procession of carriages
going toward the Pincio. Ladies nodded graciously; they even
half-turned to look after him. But he was quite unaware of it; his
thoughts were not with the portion of Roman society which rode in
carriages. He traversed the Corso and plunged into the tangle of more
or less dirty streets on the left bank of the Tiber. Here the crowds
who elbowed their way along the narrow sidewalks were more poorly
dressed. After some twenty minutes’ walking he turned into a narrow
street in the region of the grimy ruins of the theatre of Marcellus,
and paused before the doorway of a wine-shop which bore upon its front
the ambitious title, _‘Osteria del Popolo Italiano_—Tarquinio
Paterno.’ With a barely perceptible glance over his shoulder, he
stepped into the dingy little café which opened from the street. The
front room, with its square wooden tables and stiff-backed chairs, was
empty, except for Madame Tarquinio Paterno, who was sweeping the floor.
Sybert nodded to her, and crossing the room to the rear door, which
opened into the _cucina_, knocked twice. The door opened a crack for
purposes of examination, and then was thrown wide to admit him.
The room which was revealed was a stone-walled kitchen, lighted in the
rear by a small-paned window opening on to a gloomy court-yard.
‘Lighted’ is scarcely the word to use, for between the dirt on the
panes and the dimness of the court, very little daylight struggled in.
But the interior was not dreary. A charcoal fire blazing on the high
stone hearth shot up fiercely every now and then, throwing grotesque
high lights on the faces of the men grouped about the room.
Sybert paused on the threshold and glanced about from face to face.
Three or four men were sitting on low benches about a long table,
drinking wine and talking. The one who was in the act of speaking as
Sybert appeared in the door paused with his mouth still open. The
others, recognizing him, however, called out a cordial ‘_Buona sera_,
Signor Siberti,’ while Tarquinio hastened to place a chair and bring a
tall rush-covered flask of red Frascati wine. Sybert returned their
salutations, and sat down with a glance of inquiry at the excited
stranger. Tarquinio ceremoniously presented him as Girolamo Mendamo of
Naples, and he ended his introduction with the assurance, ‘Have no
fear; he is a good fellow and one of us,’ and left it to be conjectured
as to whether the compliment referred to Sybert or the Neapolitan. The
latter took it to refer to Sybert, and after a momentary hesitation
picked up his discourse where he had dropped it.
‘Ah, and when the poor fishermen are sickening for a little salt and
try to get it from the sea water without paying, what do the police do?
They throw them into prison. The Camorra used to protect people from
the police, but now the Camorra no longer dares to lift its head and
the people have no protectors. It used to be that when the police
wanted more money it satisfied them to raise the taxes, but now they
must raise the price of bread and macaroni as well.’
He had commenced in a low tone, but as he proceeded his voice rose
higher and higher.
‘And last week a great crowd broke open the bakeries and carried off
the flour, and the police were frightened and put down the price—but
not enough. Then the people threatened again, and _ecco!_ all the tax
was taken off. That is the way to deal with the police; they are
cowards, and it is only fear that makes them just.’
The man laughed hoarsely and looked around for approval. The others
nodded.
‘_Già_, he speaks the truth. It is only fear that makes them just.’
‘They are cowards—cowards,’ repeated the Neapolitan. ‘If all the
people in every city of Italy would do the same, there would soon be no
more taxes and no more police.’
‘I am afraid that you are mistaken there, my friend,’ Sybert broke in.
‘There will always be taxes and always be police. But it’s true, as you
say, that the taxes are too heavy and the police are unjust. The time
hasn’t come, though, when you can gain anything by rioting and
revolutions. The government’s backed by the army, and it’s too strong
for you. You may possibly frighten it into lowering the wheat tax for a
time, but it will be at a mighty heavy cost to the ones who are found
out.’
‘Who are you?’ the man demanded suspiciously.
‘I am an American who would like to see Italy as happy and prosperous
and well governed as the United States.’ Sybert smiled inwardly at the
ideal he was holding up.
‘Ah—you’re a spy!’ the man cried, with a quick scowl.
‘I am so far from being a spy that I have come to warn you that, if you
don’t want to spend the next few years of your lives in prison, you
must be very careful to cheer the House of Savoy on the first of May.
The police spies are keeping both eyes open just now.’
The others nodded their heads pacifically, but the Neapolitan still
scowled. He suddenly leaned forward across the table and scanned Sybert
with eyes that glittered fiercely in the firelight. Then he burst out
again in low guttural tones—
‘It is easy for you to talk, Signor Whatever-your-name-is. You have
bread to eat. But if you worked all day from sunrise to sunset—worked
until you grew so tired you couldn’t sleep, and then got up and worked
again—and then if the police came and took away all the money in taxes
and didn’t even leave enough to buy your family food, and the work gave
out so you must either steal or die, and you couldn’t find anything to
steal—then you would sing another song. Wait, wait, you say. It’s
always wait. Will better times ever come if we sit down and wait for
them? Who will give us the better times? The King, perhaps? Umberto?’
The man broke off with a harsh laugh.
‘Ah—we shall die waiting, and our children after us. And when we are
dead the good God will keep us waiting outside of paradise because
there is no money to pay for masses. No one cares for those who do not
care for themselves. It’s the poor people, who haven’t enough to eat,
who buy the gold braid on the King’s clothes and pay for the carriages
of his ministers. In my opinion, we would do better to buy bread for
our children first.’
Sybert looked back in the man’s burning face, and his own caught fire.
He knew that every word he said was true, and he knew how hopeless was
his remedy. What could these passionate, ignorant peasants, blazing
with rage, do with power if they had it? Worse than nothing. Their own
condition would only be rendered more desperate than ever. He glanced
about the table from one face to another. They were all leaning
forward, waiting for his answer. The fierce eagerness in their eyes was
contagious. A sudden wave of hopeless pity for them swept him off his
feet, and for a moment he lost himself.
‘My God! men,’ he burst out, ‘I know it’s true. I know you’re starving
while others spend your money. There’s no justice for you, and there
never will be. The only thing I want in the world is to see Italy
happy. I am as ready to die for it as you are, but what can I do? What
can any one do? The soldiers are stronger than we are, and if we raise
our hands they will shoot us down like dogs, and there it will end.’ He
paused with a deep breath, and went on in a quieter tone. ‘Patience is
poor food to offer to starving men, but it’s the one hope now for you
and for Italy. The only thing you can do is to go to the polls and vote
for honest ministers.’
‘Ministers are all alike,’ said one.
‘And who will feed us while we are waiting for election day?’ asked
another, who had been listening silently.
The question was unanswerable, and Sybert sat frowning down at the
table without speaking. The Neapolitan presently broke in again. There
was something electric about his words and the force behind them. Every
one bent forward to listen.
‘Who is the King?’ he demanded. ‘He is only a man. So am I a man. Then
what makes him so different from me? They may shoot me down if they
like, but first I have work to do. The King shall know me before I die.
And he is not all,’ he added darkly. ‘Do you know why the wheat’s so
scarce? Because of a _forestiere_ here in Rome—Signor Copli—he that
put down the Camorra in Naples and throws the beggars into prison.’
An angry mutter ran around the room.
‘You’re mistaken there,’ Sybert interrupted. ‘It’s not this Signor
Copli who bought the wheat; it’s his brother in America. This Signor
Copli is the friend of the poor people. Many, many thousand lire he
gives away every year, and no one knows about it.’
A more friendly murmur arose, but the Neapolitan was still unconvinced.
‘It is the same Signor Copli,’ he affirmed stubbornly. ‘He hides the
wheat in America, where he thinks no one will know about it. And then,
after stealing it all from the mouths of the poor, he gives a little
back with a great show, thinking to blind us. But we know. The _Grido
del Popolo_ printed it out in black and white for all who can to read.’
‘And the _Grido del Popolo_ was stopped this morning and the editor put
in jail for printing lies,’ said Sybert sharply.
‘Ah, you’re a police spy! You pretend to be for us to make us talk.’
His hand half instinctively went to his belt.
Sybert rose to his feet and dropped his hand roughly on the man’s
shoulder. ‘The best thing you can do for your country is to put that
stiletto into the fire.’ He turned aside with an expression of disgust
and tossed some silver coins on the table in payment for the wine. Then
pausing a moment, he glanced about the circle of swarthy faces.
Gradually his expression softened. ‘I’ve tried to warn you. The police
are on the watch, and I should advise you to stick pretty closely to
your homes and not mix up in any riots. I will do what I can to get
food and money for the poor people—I know of no other way to help.
Heaven knows I would do it if I could!’
He nodded to them, and motioning Tarquinio to follow, passed into the
front room. Closing the door behind them, he turned to the innkeeper.
‘Tarquinio, I think you had better go up into the hills and attend to
your vineyard for a few weeks.’
The young Italian’s face was the picture of dismay. ‘But the _osteria_,
Signor Siberti; who will manage that?’
‘Your wife can look after it. Let it be given out that you are tending
vines in the Sabine hills. That is the safest profession these days.
The police will be paying you a visit before long if I am not greatly
mistaken—and whatever you do, keep out fellows like that Neapolitan.’
Tarquinio’s face darkened with a quick look of suspicion. ‘I am but a
poor innkeeper, Signor Siberti. I must welcome those who come.’
Sybert shrugged. ‘I was merely speaking for your own safety. Such
guests are dangerous. _Addio._’ He turned toward the door, and then
turned back a moment. ‘Take my advice, Tarquinio, and visit your
vineyard.’
Tarquinio followed him to the threshold, and bidding him a voluble
good-bye in the face of the world, begged the signor Americano to
honour his humble _osteria_ again; so that any chance passer-by might
regard the gentleman as but a casual visitor. Sybert smiled at the
simple strategy. An Italian loves a plot better than his dinner, and is
never happier than when engaged in an imaginary intrigue. But in this
case it occurred to him that his host’s caution might not be out of
place; and he fervently assured Tarquinio that the wine had been
excellent, and that in the future he would send his friends to the
_Osteria del Popolo Italiano_.