They reminded me of the eyes of
the eagle, which looks into the sun, and which teaches its young to do
the same, although they are unwilling.
Marco, the second son, was thirteen years old. He was his mother's
favourite, Giovanni loved his father best. But Marco was his mother's
son, with the same brown-gold and red complexion, like a pomegranate,
and coarse black hair, and brown eyes like pebble, like agate, like an
animal's eyes. He had the same broad, bovine figure, though he was only
a boy. But there was some discrepancy in him. He was not unified, he had
no identity.
He was strong and full of animal life, but always aimless, as though his
wits scarcely controlled him. But he loved his mother with a
fundamental, generous, undistinguishing love. Only he always forgot what
he was going to do. He was much more sensitive than Maria, more shy and
reluctant. But his shyness, his sensitiveness only made him more aimless
and awkward, a tiresome clown, slack and uncontrolled, witless. All day
long his mother shouted and shrilled and scolded at him, or hit him
angrily. He did not mind, he came up like a cork, warm and roguish and
curiously appealing.
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