Then the oldest man—one of the little boys was playing with the silver chains around his neck, and another hung heavily against his shoulder, but his dignity was undisturbed and he was obviously chief of the chiefs—appealed to me.
“In your country, what would you do with such a woman?” And I perceived that I was obliged to explain to this circle of eager listeners a system of social and economic life of which they had never dreamed, of which they knew as little as we know of the year 2900.
The woman sat impassive, as unmoved as a rock of her mountains; the younger men turned, propping their chins on their elbows and looking at me attentively, and the chiefs waited with expectation. The children, settled comfortably here and there in the mass of lounging bodies, stopped their quiet playing to listen.
“Go on,” said Alex, with friendly malice. “Just tell them what private property is.”
“I expect sympathy, not ribald mirth,” said I. “Well,” I said, carefully, “tell them, Perolli, that when I say ‘man’ I mean either a man or a woman. It isn’t quite true, of course, but I’ll have to say that. Now then. In my country, a man owns a house.”
“Po! Po!” they said, shaking their heads from side to side in the sign that in Albanian means, “Yes.” “It is so here. A man owns the house in which he lives.”
“No, it’s not that. In my country, a man can own a house in which he does not live.”
Then they were surprised. “You must have many houses in your tribe, if some are left vacant.”
(“Shades of the housing situation!” murmured Alex. “Shut up!” said I.)
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. In my country a man owns a house. It is his very own house. He owns it always; he owns it after he is dead. He owns it when other people live in it.”