The Diary of a Man of Fifty

He didn’t say he was sure, but he presently inquired in what way the Countess Salvi had been dangerous.

“You must not ask me that,” I answered “for after all, I desire to remember only what was good in her.”  And as we walked back I begged him to render me the service of mentioning my name to his friend, and of saying that I had known her mother well, and that I asked permission to come and see her.

9th.—I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a most amiable young fellow he is.  He continues to represent to me, in the most extraordinary manner, my own young identity; the correspondence is perfect at all points, save that he is a better boy than I.  He is evidently acutely interested in his Countess, and leads quite the same life with her that I led with Madame de Salvi.  He goes to see her every evening and stays half the night; these Florentines keep the most extraordinary hours.  I remember, towards 3 A.M., Madame de Salvi used to turn me out.—“Come, come,” she would say, “it’s time to go.  If you were to stay later people might talk.”  I don’t know at what time he comes home, but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did.  Today he brought me a message from his Contessa—a very gracious little speech.  She remembered often to have heard her mother speak of me—she called me her English friend.  All her mother’s friends were dear to her, and she begged I would do her the honour to come and see her.  She is always at home of an evening.  Poor young Stanmer (he is of the Devonshire Stanmers—a great property) reported this speech verbatim, and of course it can’t in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled, battered soldier, old enough to be his father, should come to call upon his inammorata.  But I remember how it used to matter to me when other men came; that’s a point of difference.  However, it’s only because I’m so old.  At twenty-five I shouldn’t have been afraid of myself at fifty-two.  Camerino was thirty-four—and then the others!  She was always at home in the evening, and they all used to come.  They were old Florentine names.  But she used to let me stay after them all; she thought an old English name as good.  What a transcendent coquette! . . . But basta così as she used to say.  I meant to go tonight to Casa Salvi, but I couldn’t bring myself to the point.  I don’t know what I’m afraid of; I used to be in a hurry enough to go there once.  I suppose I am afraid of the very look of the place—of the old rooms, the old walls.  I shall go tomorrow night.  I am afraid of the very echoes.

10th.—She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her mother.  When I went in I was tremendously startled; I stood starting at her.  I have just come home; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening at Casa Salvi.  It is very warm—my window is open—I can look out on the river gliding past in the starlight.  So, of old, when I came home, I used to stand and look out.  There are the same cypresses on the opposite hills.

Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four other admirers; they all got up when I came in.  I think I had been talked about, and there was some curiosity.  But why should I have been talked about?  They were all youngish men—none of them of my time.  She is a wonderful likeness of her mother; I couldn’t get over it.  Beautiful like her mother, and yet with the same faults in her face; but with her mother’s perfect head and brow and sympathetic, almost pitying, eyes.  Her face has just that peculiarity of her mother’s, which, of all human countenances that I have ever known, was the one that passed most quickly and completely from the expression of gaiety to that of repose.  Repose in her face always suggested sadness; and while you were watching it with a kind of awe, and wondering of what tragic secret it was the token, it kindled, on the instant, into a radiant Italian smile.  The Countess Scarabelli’s smiles tonight, however, were almost uninterrupted.  She greeted me—divinely, as her mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of the sofa—as I used to do—and watched her while she talked.  She is thin and very fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that completes the resemblance.  The house, the rooms, are almost absolutely the same; there may be changes of detail, but they don’t modify the general effect.  There are the same precious pictures on the walls of the salon—the same great dusky fresco in the concave ceiling.  The daughter is not rich, I suppose, any more than the mother.  The furniture is worn and faded, and I was admitted by a solitary servant, who carried a twinkling taper before me up the great dark marble staircase.

“I have often heard of you,” said the Countess, as I sat down near her; “my mother often spoke of you.”

“Often?” I answered.  “I am surprised at that.”

“Why are you surprised?  Were you not good friends?”

“Yes, for a certain time—very good friends.  But I was sure she had forgotten me.”

“She never forgot,” said the Countess, looking at me intently and smiling.  “She was not like that.”

“She was not like most other women in any way,” I declared.

“Ah, she was charming,” cried the Countess, rattling open her fan.  “I have always been very curious to see you.  I have received an impression of you.”

“A good one, I hope.”

She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this: it was just her mother’s trick.

“‘My Englishman,’ she used to call you—‘il mio Inglese.’”

“I hope she spoke of me kindly,” I insisted.

The Countess, still laughing, gave a little shrug balancing her hand to and fro.  “So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel.  You don’t mind my being frank like this—eh?”

“I delight in it; it reminds me of your mother.”

“Every one tells me that.  But I am not clever like her.  You will see for yourself.”

“That speech,” I said, “completes the resemblance.  She was always pretending she was not clever, and in reality—”

“In reality she was an angel, eh?  To escape from dangerous comparisons I will admit, then, that I am clever.  That will make a difference.  But let us talk of you.  You are very—how shall I say it?—very eccentric.”

“Is that what your mother told you?”

“To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original.  But aren’t all Englishmen eccentric?  All except that one!” and the Countess pointed to poor Stanmer, in his corner of the sofa.

“Oh, I know just what he is,” I said.

“He’s as quiet as a lamb—he’s like all the world,” cried the Countess.

“Like all the world—yes.  He is in love with you.”

She looked at me with sudden gravity.  “I don’t object to your saying that for all the world—but I do for him.”

“Well,” I went on, “he is peculiar in this: he is rather afraid of you.”

Instantly she began to smile; she turned her face toward Stanmer.  He had seen that we were talking about him; he coloured and got up—then came toward us.

“I like men who are afraid of nothing,” said our hostess.

“I know what you want,” I said to Stanmer.  “You want to know what the Signora Contessa says about you.”

Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely.  “I don’t care a straw what she says.”

“You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa,” I answered.  “She declares she doesn’t care a pin’s head what you think.”

“I recognise the Countess’s style!” Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.

“One would think,” said the Countess, “that you were trying to make a quarrel between us.”

I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood in front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it.  But he was not seeing it; he was listening to what we might say.  I often stood there in just that way.  “He can’t quarrel with you, any more than I could have quarrelled with your mother.”

“Ah, but you did.  Something painful passed between you.”

“Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel.  I went away one day and never saw her again.  That was all.”

The Countess looked at me gravely.  “What do you call it when a man does that?”

“It depends upon the case.”

“Sometimes,” said the Countess in French, “it’s a lâcheté.”

“Yes, and sometimes it’s an act of wisdom.”

“And sometimes,” rejoined the Countess, “it’s a mistake.”

I shook my head.  “For me it was no mistake.”

She began to laugh again.  “Caro Signore, you’re a great original.  What had my poor mother done to you?”

I looked at our young Englishman, who still had his back turned to us and was staring up at the picture.  “I will tell you some other time,” I said.

“I shall certainly remind you; I am very curious to know.”  Then she opened and shut her fan two or three times, still looking at me.  What eyes they have!  “Tell me a little,” she went on, “if I may ask without indiscretion.  Are you married?”

“No, Signora Contessa.”

“Isn’t that at least a mistake?”

“Do I look very unhappy?”