The Diary of a Man of Fifty

“Yes, I don’t lime that,” said Stanmer.  He was silent a while, and then he added—“Perhaps she wouldn’t have done so if you had remained.”

He has a little innocent way!  “Very likely she would have dispensed with the ceremony,” I answered, drily.

“Upon my word,” he said, “you have analysed her!”

“You ought to be grateful to me.  I have done for you what you seem unable to do for yourself.”

“I don’t see any Camerino in my case,” he said.

“Perhaps among those gentlemen I can find one for you.”

“Thank you,” he cried; “I’ll take care of that myself!”  And he went away—satisfied, I hope.

10th.—He’s an obstinate little wretch; it irritates me to see him sticking to it.  Perhaps he is looking for his Camerino.  I shall leave him, at any rate, to his fate; it is growing insupportably hot.

11th.—I went this evening to bid farewell to the Scarabelli.  There was no one there; she was alone in her great dusky drawing-room, which was lighted only by a couple of candles, with the immense windows open over the garden.  She was dressed in white; she was deucedly pretty.  She asked me, of course, why I had been so long without coming.

“I think you say that only for form,” I answered.  “I imagine you know.”

“Chè! what have I done?”

“Nothing at all.  You are too wise for that.”

She looked at me a while.  “I think you are a little crazy.”

“Ah no, I am only too sane.  I have too much reason rather than too little.”

“You have, at any rate, what we call a fixed idea.”

“There is no harm in that so long as it’s a good one.”

“But yours is abominable!” she exclaimed, with a laugh.

“Of course you can’t like me or my ideas.  All things considered, you have treated me with wonderful kindness, and I thank you and kiss your hands.  I leave Florence tomorrow.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry!” she said, laughing again.  “But I am very glad to have seen you.  I always wondered about you.  You are a curiosity.”

“Yes, you must find me so.  A man who can resist your charms!  The fact is, I can’t.  This evening you are enchanting; and it is the first time I have been alone with you.”

She gave no heed to this; she turned away.  But in a moment she came back, and stood looking at me, and her beautiful solemn eyes seemed to shine in the dimness of the room.

“How could you treat my mother so?” she asked.

“Treat her so?”

“How could you desert the most charming woman in the world?”

“It was not a case of desertion; and if it had been it seems to me she was consoled.”

At this moment there was the sound of a step in the ante-chamber, and I saw that the Countess perceived it to be Stanmer’s.

“That wouldn’t have happened,” she murmured.  “My poor mother needed a protector.”

Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking at me, I thought, with a little air of bravado.  He must think me indeed a tiresome, meddlesome bore; and upon my word, turning it all over, I wonder at his docility.  After all, he’s five-and-twenty—and yet I must add, it does irritate me—the way he sticks!  He was followed in a moment by two or three of the regular Italians, and I made my visit short.

“Good-bye, Countess,” I said; and she gave me her hand in silence.  “Do you need a protector?” I added, softly.

She looked at me from head to foot, and then, almost angrily—“Yes, Signore.”

But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an instant, and then bent my venerable head and kissed it.  I think I appeased her.

BOLOGNA, 14th.—I left Florence on the 11th, and have been here these three days.  Delightful old Italian town—but it lacks the charm of my Florentine secret.

I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night, after coming back from Casa Salsi.  I afterwards fell asleep in my chair; the night was half over when I woke up.  Instead of going to bed, I stood a long time at the window, looking out at the river.  It was a warm, still night, and the first faint streaks of sunrise were in the sky.  Presently I heard a slow footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made out by the aid of a street lamp that Stanmer was but just coming home.  I called to him to come to my rooms, and, after an interval, he made his appearance.

“I want to bid you good-bye,” I said; “I shall depart in the morning.  Don’t go to the trouble of saying you are sorry.  Of course you are not; I must have bullied you immensely.”

He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he said he was very glad to have made my acquaintance.

“Your conversation,” he said, with his little innocent air, “has been very suggestive.”

“Have you found Camerino?” I asked, smiling.

“I have given up the search.”

“Well,” I said, “some day when you find that you have made a great mistake, remember I told you so.”

He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by the exercise of his reason.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you may have made a great mistake?”

“Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later.”

That’s what I said to him; but I didn’t say that the question, pointed by his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force than it had ever had before.

And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had been so especially happy.

PARIS, December 17th.—A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence—a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.

“My dear General—I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli.  You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear.  Things that involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen from the inside.—Yours ever, E. S.

“P. S.—A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my happiness!”

His happiness makes him very clever.  I hope it will last—I mean his cleverness, not his happiness.

LONDON, April 19th, 1877.—Last night, at Lady H–’s, I met Edmund Stanmer, who married Bianca Salvi’s daughter.  I heard the other day that they had come to England.  A handsome young fellow, with a fresh contented face.  He reminded me of Florence, which I didn’t pretend to forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparage that woman to him.  I had a complete theory about her.  But he didn’t seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter.  I asked him if his wife were there.  I had to do that.

“Oh yes, she’s in one of the other rooms.  Come and make her acquaintance; I want you to know her.”