“He has no profession, no ambitions. His father was in the Legislature, as was my father. Arturo is satisfied to live in the country, to make wine, to raise sheep, goats, swine. That is very well, but it is not enough. He should see the world, pass a winter in Rome; but no, he thinks only of his vineyards and his sheep, Madonna Santa, his goats—my son!”
Arturo returned, followed by a servant bringing refreshments. He poured the wine, held the glass to the light, handed it to me with a deep bow:
“Your health!”
“This is exquisite—so light—it’s like some Syracusan wine I had at Taormina;” I mentioned the name.
“That is not an honest wine,” he was all alive now. “I should not advise you to take it. This now is pure; be not afraid, it cannot hurt you!”
“It’s hard to get wine in Rome at any decent price nowadays,” I said.
“What do you pay a flask?”
“We are fortunate, we do not pay forestieri prices, we have it from a friend for two francs—“
“If this suits the Signora, we can make an arrangement to send her a quantity, direct, not through the hands of an agent—they are all robbers!”