STORY TO READ 30 JULY

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

Reimagined for Graduate Readers
By A.J. Cronin (Adapted)
In the sun-drenched lanes of Verona,
amid the soft rustle of olive trees and
the subtle perfume of Italian soil
freshly kissed by dawn, I encountered
a tale not of romance, but of
extraordinary fortitude — a story that
unearths the true nobility that resides
not in aristocratic lineage, but in
selfless sacrifice.
It began with an unassuming incident.
My driver and I were navigating a
winding road out of Verona when our
a ention was caught by two
diminutive figures standing resolutely
at a roadside. They couldn’t have been
more than thirteen and twelve. Their
a ire was threadbare, their frames
fragile, yet an unmistakable spark of
resilience shone in their eyes. The
elder, Nicola, carried a basket
brimming with wild strawberries. His
younger companion, Jacopo, clutched
an assortment of postcards.
Their faces, though youthful, bore
traces of fatigue far beyond their years.
Yet there was no trace of complaint —
only a quiet dignity. Their English was
halting but serviceable, laced with an
endearing accent. We purchased their
modest wares more out of curiosity
than necessity, but something about
their demeanour intrigued me.
That intrigue deepened into quiet
admiration over the following days.
We found them again — this time
polishing shoes near our hotel. Later,
they were seen selling newspapers,
offering tourist guides through
Verona’s historic landmarks, even
running errands for hotels and cafes.
Their industriousness was unrelenting,
and their stoicism — inspiring.
Naturally, I felt compelled to inquire
into the purpose behind such relentless
labour. Surely, no child should
shoulder so many burdens. When
asked, Nicola, the elder, merely replied
with a reticent smile, “We have our
reasons, sir.” His refusal to divulge
details was not born of evasiveness,
but a quiet, almost noble privacy.
There was no air of martyrdom about
them — only determination, and
beneath that, an inscrutable sorrow.
We often saw them late at night, curled
on stone steps, their wares exhausted,
yet never once soliciting sympathy.
The mystery unravelled one morning
when Jacopo approached me,
somewhat hesitantly. “Sir,” he said, his
tone both deferential and hopeful,
“Could you perhaps drive us to Poleta,
thirty kilometres from here, next
Sunday? It’s very important — and we
wouldn’t trouble you if it weren’t.”
I agreed, sensing that this might unveil
the deeper purpose of their toil.
On Sunday morning, we departed
early. The drive through the
countryside was tranquil — fields
bursting with wildflowers, cypress
trees lining the horizon, and distant
church spires piercing the sky like
sentinels of history.
At Poleta, the boys directed us toward
a modest, well-kept building nestled in
the hills — a charitable hospital.
“Would you mind waiting here, sir?”
Nicola asked, almost apologetically,
before disappearing into the gates with
Jacopo. A nurse who had seen us
arrive approached me with a warm
smile and volunteered an explanation.
“Those two boys come here every
Sunday,” she said. “They sit beside
their sister, Lucia, for an hour or two,
sometimes reading to her or simply
talking. She suffers from tuberculosis
of the spine — a war wound of sorts,
not from the ba lefield, but from the
collateral damage inflicted on civilians.
She’s been here for months.”
My breath caught. “Their sister?” I
whispered.
“Yes. She’s recovering steadily, thanks
to the money they pay regularly for
her treatment. No one here quite
knows how they manage to do it, but
they’re very punctual. Never a week
missed.”
I peered through the glass panel and
saw the two boys seated beside a pale,
fragile girl, not more than twenty. Her
features were delicate, but her eyes —
they glowed with life. Jacopo was
fidgeting with a bouquet of
wildflowers while Nicola read from a
worn book. There was tenderness in
that moment that needed no
translation.
Later, during the return journey, I
refrained from questioning them. It
was their story to tell — or not. But the
truth had se led heavily on my chest.
What the world had failed to see, what
superficial gazes might have missed,
was this: behind those ta ered clothes
and stained fingers were two
gentlemen in the truest sense —
honourable not by lineage, but by
action; resilient not through privilege,
but through adversity.
I discovered later that before the war,
the boys had belonged to a cultured
family. Their father, a respected singer,
was killed during early bombings.
Their home was razed, and they fled
with Lucia, who eventually fell ill. The
hospital at Poleta accepted her on the
condition of regular payments. Thus
began the boys’ crusade to fund her
recovery — not once revealing the
depth of their struggle, not once
demanding charity.
In an age where nobility is too often
confused with display, these two boys
redefined it. There was no pretense, no
orchestrated heroism — only an
unspoken code of duty and affection
that guided them like the north star.
As I drove back through the vine-
draped countryside of Verona, the
story clung to me like the scent of rain
on earth. I realised that I had stumbled
not upon a tale of mere survival, but of
transcendent love. In their silence, the
boys had taught me volumes about
integrity, loyalty, and the boundless
power of familial devotion.

Final Reflection
We often assign the word “gentleman”
to those adorned in tailored suits,
fluent in etique e, and seated in
positions of status. But in that small
Italian town, I met two boys who
redefined the term. Their refinement
lay not in polished speech or grand
possessions, but in the relentless
pursuit of their sister’s wellness — an
act more chivalrous and humane than
any coat of arms could ever bestow.
In the annals of my travels, I have
witnessed the glamour of cities and the
splendor of civilizations — but seldom
have I encountered the quiet grandeur
of two souls so young, yet so
profoundly noble.
They were not just “Two Gentlemen of
Verona.”
They were, and are, paragons of silent
heroism.