Paolo was so clear and translucent.
In Giovanni the fusion of the parents was perfect, he was a perfect
spark from the flint and steel. There was in Paolo a subtle intelligence
in feeling, a delicate appreciation of the other person. But the mind
was unintelligent, he could not grasp a new order. Maria Fiori was much
sharper and more adaptable to the ways of the world. Paolo had an almost
glass-like quality, fine and clear and perfectly tempered; but he was
also finished and brittle. Maria was much coarser, more vulgar, but also
she was more human, more fertile, with crude potentiality. His passion
was too fixed in its motion, hers too loose and overwhelming.
But Giovanni was beautiful, gentle, and courtly like Paolo, but warm,
like Maria, ready to flush like a girl with anger or confusion. He stood
straight and tall, and seemed to look into the far distance with his
clear grey eyes. Yet also he could look at one and touch one with his
look, he could meet one. Paolo's blue eyes were like the eyes of the old
spinning-woman, clear and blue and belonging to the mountains, their
vision seemed to end in space, abstract.
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