"Twelve thousand francs a day!"
"And do you know who planted the trees? It was a Scotsman."
"A Scozzese. What kind of animal is that?"
"A person who thinks ahead."
"Then my mother is a Scotsman."
I glanced from the sea into his face; there was something of the same
calm depth in both, the same sunny composure. What is it, this limpid
state of the mind? What do we call this alloy of profundity and
frankness? We call it intelligence. I would like to meet that man or
woman who can make Attilio say something foolish. He does not know what
it is to feel shy. Serenely objective, he discards those subterfuges
which are the usual safeguard of youth or inexperience - the evasions,
reservations and prevarications that defend the shallow, the weak, the
self-conscious. His candour rises above them. He feels instinctively
that these things are pitfalls.
"Have you no sweetheart, Attilio?"
"Certainly I have. But it is not a man's affair. We are only children,
you understand - siamo ancora piccoli."
"Did you ever give her a kiss?"
"Never. Not a single one."
I relight my pipe, and then inquire:
"Why not give her a kiss?"
"People would call me a disrespectful boy."
"Nobody, surely, need be any the wiser?"
"She is not like you and me."
A pause....
"Not like us? How so?"
"She would tell her sister."
"What of it?"
"The sister would tell her mother, who would say unpleasant things to
mine.
