‘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?’