The Wheat Princess

‘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.

CHAPTER IX

Sybert turned away from the wine-shop with a half-laugh at Tarquinio’s little play, with a half-frown at the fierce words of the Neapolitan, which were still ringing in his head. He walked along with his eyes upon the ground, scarcely aware of his surroundings, until an excited medley of voices close at hand suddenly startled him from his thoughts. He glanced up for a moment with unseeing eyes, and then with an astonished flash of recognition as he beheld Marcia Copley backed against one of the dark stone arches in the substructure of the theatre of Marcellus. Her head was thrown back and there were two angry red spots in her cheeks, while a struggling crowd of boys pressed around her with shouts and gesticulations.

As he paused to take in the meaning of the scene, he heard Marcia—evidently so angry that she had forgotten her Italian—say in English: ‘You beastly little cowards! You wouldn’t dare hurt anything but a poor animal that can’t hit back.’ She accompanied this speech with a vigorous shake to a small boy whom she held by the shoulder. The boy could not understand her words, but he did understand her action and he kicked back vigorously. The crowd laughed and began to close around her. She took out her purse. ‘Who owns this dog?’ she demanded. At sight of the money they pressed closer, and in another moment would have snatched it away; but Sybert stepped forward, and raising his cane, scattered them right and left.

‘What in the world are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Mr. Sybert! I’m so glad to see you. Look! those horrible little wretches were killing this dog.’

Sybert glanced down at her feet, where a bedraggled cur was crouching, shivering, and looking up with pleading eyes. The blood was running from a cut on its shoulder, and a motley assortment of tin was tied to its tail by a cord. He took out his knife and cut the dog loose, and Marcia stooped and picked it up.

‘Take care, Miss Marcia,’ he said in a disgusted tone. ‘He’s very dirty, and you will get covered with blood.’

Marcia put her handkerchief over the dog’s wound, and it lay in her arms, whimpering and shaking.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded again, almost roughly. ‘What are you doing in this part of the city alone?’

His tone at another time would have been irritating, but just now she was too grateful for his appearance to be anything but cordial, and she hastily explained—

‘I’ve been spending the afternoon at Tre Fontane with some friends. I left them at the English cemetery, and was just driving back to the station when I saw those miserable little boys chasing this dog. I jumped out and grabbed him, and they all followed me.’

‘I see,’ said Sybert; ‘and it is fortunate that I happened by when I did, or you wouldn’t have had any money left to pay your cab-driver. These Roman urchins have not the perfect manners one could wish.’

‘Manners!’ Marcia sniffed indignantly. ‘I loathe the Italians! I think they are the cruellest people I ever saw. Those boys were stoning this poor dog to death.’

‘I dare say they have not enjoyed your advantages.’

‘They would have killed him if I hadn’t come just when I did.’

‘You are not going out to the villa alone?’

‘No; Aunt Katherine and Gerald are going to meet me at the station.’

‘Oh, very well,’ he answered in a tone of evident relief, as they turned toward the waiting carriage. ‘Let me take the dog and I will drop him a few streets farther on, where the boys won’t find him again.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Marcia indignantly. ‘Some other boys would find him. I shall take him home and feed him. He doesn’t look as if he had had anything to eat for weeks.’

‘In that case,’ said Sybert resignedly, ‘I will drive to the station with you, for he is scarcely a lap-dog and you may have trouble getting him into the train.’ And while she was in the midst of her remonstrance he stepped into the carriage and put the dog on the floor between his feet. The dog, however, did not favour the change, and stretching up an appealing paw he touched Marcia’s knee, with a whine.

‘You poor thing! Stop trembling. Nobody’s going to hurt you,’ and she bent over and kissed him on the nose.

Marcia was excited. She had not quite recovered her equanimity since the scene with Paul Dessart in the cloisters, and the affair of the dog had upset her afresh. She rattled on now, with a gaiety quite at variance with her usual attitude toward Sybert, of anything and everything that came into her mind—Gerald’s broken tooth, the departure of Marietta, the afternoon at Tre Fontane, and the episode of the dog. Sybert listened politely, but his thoughts were not upon her words.

He was too full of what he had left behind in the little café for him to listen patiently to Marcia’s chatter. As he looked at her, flushed and smiling in her dainty clothes, which were faultless with the faultlessness that comes from money, he experienced a feeling almost of anger against her. He longed to face her with a few plain truths. What right had she to all her useless luxuries, when her father was—as the Neapolitan had truly put it—taking his money from the mouths of the poor? It was their work which made it possible for such as she to live—and was she worth it? The world had given her much: she was educated, she was cultured, she had trained tastes and sensibilities, and in return what did she do for the world? She saved a dog. He made a movement of disgust and for a moment he almost obeyed his impulse to throw the dog out. But he brought himself back to reason with a half-laugh. It was not her fault. She knew nothing of her father’s transaction; she knew nothing of Italy’s need. There was no reason why she should not be happy. And, after all, he told himself wearily, it was a relief to meet some one who had no troubles.