‘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?’