




Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk





THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY
by Henry James


Florence, _April 5th_, 1874.--They told me I should find Italy greatly
changed; and in seven-and-twenty years there is room for changes.  But to
me everything is so perfectly the same that I seem to be living my youth
over again; all the forgotten impressions of that enchanting time come
back to me.  At the moment they were powerful enough; but they afterwards
faded away.  What in the world became of them?  Whatever becomes of such
things, in the long intervals of consciousness?  Where do they hide
themselves away? in what unvisited cupboards and crannies of our being do
they preserve themselves?  They are like the lines of a letter written in
sympathetic ink; hold the letter to the fire for a while and the grateful
warmth brings out the invisible words.  It is the warmth of this yellow
sun of Florence that has been restoring the text of my own young romance;
the thing has been lying before me today as a clear, fresh page.  There
have been moments during the last ten years when I have fell so
portentously old, so fagged and finished, that I should have taken as a
very bad joke any intimation that this present sense of juvenility was
still in store for me.  It won't last, at any rate; so I had better make
the best of it.  But I confess it surprises me.  I have led too serious a
life; but that perhaps, after all, preserves one's youth.  At all events,
I have travelled too far, I have worked too hard, I have lived in brutal
climates and associated with tiresome people.  When a man has reached his
fifty-second year without being, materially, the worse for wear--when he
has fair health, a fair fortune, a tidy conscience and a complete
exemption from embarrassing relatives--I suppose he is bound, in
delicacy, to write himself happy.  But I confess I shirk this obligation.
I have not been miserable; I won't go so far as to say that--or at least
as to write it.  But happiness--positive happiness--would have been
something different.  I don't know that it would have been better, by all
measurements--that it would have left me better off at the present time.
But it certainly would have made this difference--that I should not have
been reduced, in pursuit of pleasant images, to disinter a buried episode
of more than a quarter of a century ago.  I should have found
entertainment more--what shall I call it?--more contemporaneous.  I
should have had a wife and children, and I should not be in the way of
making, as the French say, infidelities to the present.  Of course it's a
great gain to have had an escape, not to have committed an act of
thumping folly; and I suppose that, whatever serious step one might have
taken at twenty-five, after a struggle, and with a violent effort, and
however one's conduct might appear to be justified by events, there would
always remain a certain element of regret; a certain sense of loss
lurking in the sense of gain; a tendency to wonder, rather wishfully,
what _might_ have been.  What might have been, in this case, would,
without doubt, have been very sad, and what has been has been very
cheerful and comfortable; but there are nevertheless two or three
questions I might ask myself.  Why, for instance, have I never
married--why have I never been able to care for any woman as I cared for
that one?  Ah, why are the mountains blue and why is the sunshine warm?
Happiness mitigated by impertinent conjectures--that's about my ticket.

6th.--I knew it wouldn't last; it's already passing away.  But I have
spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place.
Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same
time; my imagination makes a great circuit and comes back to the starting-
point.  There is that well-remembered odour of spring in the air, and the
flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into great sheaves and stacks,
all along the rugged base of the Strozzi Palace.  I wandered for an hour
in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together.  I remember
all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday.  I found the
corner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, in
front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just
beside it.  The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has
lost one of her tapering fingers.  I sat there for half an hour, and it
was strange how near to me she seemed.  The place was perfectly
empty--that is, it was filled with _her_.  I closed my eyes and listened;
I could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel.  Why do we
make such an ado about death?  What is it, after all, but a sort of
refinement of life?  She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in
the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence.  I went
afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour from
room to room.  The same great pictures hung in the same places, and the
same dark frescoes arched above them.  Twice, of old, I went there with
her; she had a great understanding of art.  She understood all sorts of
things.  Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time.  The face
is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her.  But
everything does that.  We stood and looked at it together once for half
an hour; I remember perfectly what she said.

8th.--Yesterday I felt blue--blue and bored; and when I got up this
morning I had half a mind to leave Florence.  But I went out into the
street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down--looked at the yellow
river and the violet hills, and then decided to remain--or rather, I
decided nothing.  I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and
before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was too
late to start for Rome.  I strolled along the quay, where something
presently happened that rewarded me for staying.  I stopped in front of a
little jeweller's shop, where a great many objects in mosaic were exposed
in the window; I stood there for some minutes--I don't know why, for I
have no taste for mosaic.  In a moment a little girl came and stood
beside me--a little girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket.  I
turned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened to fall on her basket.  It
was covered with a napkin, and on the napkin was pinned a piece of paper,
inscribed with an address.  This address caught my glance--there was a
name on it I knew.  It was very legibly written--evidently by a scribe
who had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill.  _Contessa
Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina_--so ran the superscription; I looked at
it for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion.  Presently the little
girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with a
pair of timid brown eyes.

"Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?" I asked.

The child stared at me.  "To the Countess Scarabelli."

"Do you know the Countess?"

"Know her?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay.

"I mean, have you seen her?"

"Yes, I have seen her."  And then, in a moment, with a sudden soft
smile--"_E bella_!" said the little girl.  She was beautiful herself as
she said it.

"Precisely; and is she fair or dark?"

The child kept gazing at me.  "_Bionda--bionda_," she answered, looking
about into the golden sunshine for a comparison.

"And is she young?"

"She is not young--like me.  But she is not old like--like--"

"Like me, eh?  And is she married?"

The little girl began to look wise.  "I have never seen the Signor
Conte."

"And she lives in Via Ghibellina?"

"_Sicuro_.  In a beautiful palace."

I had one more question to ask, and I pointed it with certain copper
coins.  "Tell me a little--is she good?"

The child inspected a moment the contents of her little brown fist.  "It's
you who are good," she answered.

"Ah, but the Countess?" I repeated.

My informant lowered her big brown eyes, with an air of conscientious
meditation that was inexpressibly quaint.  "To me she appears so," she
said at last, looking up.

"Ah, then, she must be so," I said, "because, for your age, you are very
intelligent."  And having delivered myself of this compliment I walked
away and left the little girl counting her _soldi_.

I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could learn something about
the Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli.  In the doorway I found the innkeeper, and
near him stood a young man whom I immediately perceived to be a
compatriot, and with whom, apparently, he had been in conversation.

"I wonder whether you can give me a piece of information," I said to the
landlord.  "Do you know anything about the Count Salvi-Scarabelli?"

The landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly raised his shoulders,
with a melancholy smile.  "I have many regrets, dear sir--"

"You don't know the name?"

"I know the name, assuredly.  But I don't know the gentleman."

I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the young
Englishman, who looked at me with a good deal of earnestness.  He was
apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided to speak.

"The Count Scarabelli is dead," he said, very gravely.

I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing young fellow.  "And his widow
lives," I observed, "in Via Ghibellina?"

"I daresay that is the name of the street."  He was a handsome young
Englishman, but he was also an awkward one; he wondered who I was and
what I wanted, and he did me the honour to perceive that, as regards
these points, my appearance was reassuring.  But he hesitated, very
properly, to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady whom he knew, and
he had not the art to conceal his hesitation.  I instantly felt it to be
singular that though he regarded me as a perfect stranger, I had not the
same feeling about him.  Whether it was that I had seen him before, or
simply that I was struck with his agreeable young face--at any rate, I
felt myself, as they say here, in sympathy with him.  If I have seen him
before I don't remember the occasion, and neither, apparently, does he; I
suppose it's only a part of the feeling I have had the last three days
about everything.  It was this feeling that made me suddenly act as if I
had known him a long time.

"Do you know the Countess Salvi?" I asked.

He looked at me a little, and then, without resenting the freedom of my
question--"The Countess Scarabelli, you mean," he said.

"Yes," I answered; "she's the daughter."

"The daughter is a little girl."

"She must be grown up now.  She must be--let me see--close upon thirty."

My young Englishman began to smile.  "Of whom are you speaking?"

"I was speaking of the daughter," I said, understanding his smile.  "But
I was thinking of the mother."

"Of the mother?"

"Of a person I knew twenty-seven years ago--the most charming woman I
have ever known.  She was the Countess Salvi--she lived in a wonderful
old house in Via Ghibellina."

"A wonderful old house!" my young Englishman repeated.

"She had a little girl," I went on; "and the little girl was very fair,
like her mother; and the mother and daughter had the same name--Bianca."
I stopped and looked at my companion, and he blushed a little.  "And
Bianca Salvi," I continued, "was the most charming woman in the world."
He blushed a little more, and I laid my hand on his shoulder.  "Do you
know why I tell you this?  Because you remind me of what I was when I
knew her--when I loved her."  My poor young Englishman gazed at me with a
sort of embarrassed and fascinated stare, and still I went on.  "I say
that's the reason I told you this--but you'll think it a strange reason.
You remind me of my younger self.  You needn't resent that--I was a
charming young fellow.  The Countess Salvi thought so.  Her daughter
thinks the same of you."

Instantly, instinctively, he raised his hand to my arm.  "Truly?"

"Ah, you are wonderfully like me!" I said, laughing.  "That was just my
state of mind.  I wanted tremendously to please her."  He dropped his
hand and looked away, smiling, but with an air of ingenuous confusion
which quickened my interest in him.  "You don't know what to make of me,"
I pursued.  "You don't know why a stranger should suddenly address you in
this way and pretend to read your thoughts.  Doubtless you think me a
little cracked.  Perhaps I am eccentric; but it's not so bad as that.  I
have lived about the world a great deal, following my profession, which
is that of a soldier.  I have been in India, in Africa, in Canada, and I
have lived a good deal alone.  That inclines people, I think, to sudden
bursts of confidence.  A week ago I came into Italy, where I spent six
months when I was your age.  I came straight to Florence--I was eager to
see it again, on account of associations.  They have been crowding upon
me ever so thickly.  I have taken the liberty of giving you a hint of
them."  The young man inclined himself a little, in silence, as if he had
been struck with a sudden respect.  He stood and looked away for a moment
at the river and the mountains.  "It's very beautiful," I said.

"Oh, it's enchanting," he murmured.

"That's the way I used to talk.  But that's nothing to you."

He glanced at me again.  "On the contrary, I like to hear."

"Well, then, let us take a walk.  If you too are staying at this inn, we
are fellow-travellers.  We will walk down the Arno to the Cascine.  There
are several things I should like to ask of you."

My young Englishman assented with an air of almost filial confidence, and
we strolled for an hour beside the river and through the shady alleys of
that lovely wilderness.  We had a great deal of talk: it's not only
myself, it's my whole situation over again.

"Are you very fond of Italy?" I asked.

He hesitated a moment.  "One can't express that."

"Just so; I couldn't express it.  I used to try--I used to write verses.
On the subject of Italy I was very ridiculous."

"So am I ridiculous," said my companion.

"No, my dear boy," I answered, "we are not ridiculous; we are two very
reasonable, superior people."

"The first time one comes--as I have done--it's a revelation."

"Oh, I remember well; one never forgets it.  It's an introduction to
beauty."

"And it must be a great pleasure," said my young friend, "to come back."

"Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here.  What form of it," I asked,
"do you prefer?"

My companion looked a little mystified; and at last he said, "I am very
fond of the pictures."

"So was I.  And among the pictures, which do you like best?"

"Oh, a great many."

"So did I; but I had certain favourites."

Again the young man hesitated a little, and then he confessed that the
group of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was that of
the early Florentines.

I was so struck with this that I stopped short.  "That was exactly my
taste!"  And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our way
again.

We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyed
Hermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us and
listened to our talk.

"The Countess Salvi died ten years ago," I said.

My companion admitted that he had heard her daughter say so.

"After I knew her she married again," I added.  "The Count Salvi died
before I knew her--a couple of years after their marriage."

"Yes, I have heard that."

"And what else have you heard?"

My companion stared at me; he had evidently heard nothing.

"She was a very interesting woman--there are a great many things to be
said about her.  Later, perhaps, I will tell you.  Has the daughter the
same charm?"

"You forget," said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen the
mother."

"Very true.  I keep confounding.  But the daughter--how long have you
known her?"

"Only since I have been here.  A very short time."

"A week?"

For a moment he said nothing.  "A month."

"That's just the answer I should have made.  A week, a month--it was all
the same to me."

"I think it is more than a month," said the young man.

"It's probably six.  How did you make her acquaintance?"

"By a letter--an introduction given me by a friend in England."

"The analogy is complete," I said.  "But the friend who gave me my letter
to Madame de Salvi died many years ago.  He, too, admired her greatly.  I
don't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might be
living in Florence.  Somehow I took for granted it was all over.  I never
thought of the little girl; I never heard what had become of her.  I
walked past the palace yesterday and saw that it was occupied; but I took
for granted it had changed hands."

"The Countess Scarabelli," said my friend, "brought it to her husband as
her marriage-portion."

"I hope he appreciated it!  There is a fountain in the court, and there
is a charming old garden beyond it.  The Countess's sitting-room looks
into that garden.  The staircase is of white marble, and there is a
medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where it
makes a bend.  Before you come into the drawing-room you stand a moment
in a great vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved with bare
tiles, and furnished only with three chairs.  In the drawing-room, above
the fireplace, is a superb Andrea del Sarto.  The furniture is covered
with pale sea-green."

My companion listened to all this.

"The Andrea del Sarto is there; it's magnificent.  But the furniture is
in pale red."

"Ah, they have changed it, then--in twenty-seven years."

"And there's a portrait of Madame de Salvi," continued my friend.

I was silent a moment.  "I should like to see that."

He too was silent.  Then he asked, "Why don't you go and see it?  If you
knew the mother so well, why don't you call upon the daughter?"

"From what you tell me I am afraid."

"What have I told you to make you afraid?"

I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance.  "The mother was a very
dangerous woman."

The young Englishman began to blush again.  "The daughter is not," he
said.

"Are you very sure?"

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 cosi_ 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 _lachete_."

"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?"

She dropped her head a little to one side.  "For an Englishman--no!"

"Ah," said I, laughing, "you are quite as clever as your mother."

"And they tell me that you are a great soldier," she continued; "you have
lived in India.  It was very kind of you, so far away, to have remembered
our poor dear Italy."

"One always remembers Italy; the distance makes no difference.  I
remembered it well the day I heard of your mother's death!"

"Ah, that was a sorrow!" said the Countess.  "There's not a day that I
don't weep for her.  But _che vuole_?  She's a saint its paradise."

"_Sicuro_," I answered; and I looked some time at the ground.  "But tell
me about yourself, dear lady," I asked at last, raising my eyes.  "You
have also had the sorrow of losing your husband."

"I am a poor widow, as you see.  _Che vuole_?  My husband died after
three years of marriage."

I waited for her to remark that the late Count Scarabelli was also a
saint in paradise, but I waited in vain.

"That was like your distinguished father," I said.

"Yes, he too died young.  I can't be said to have known him; I was but of
the age of my own little girl.  But I weep for him all the more."

Again I was silent for a moment.

"It was in India too," I said presently, "that I heard of your mother's
second marriage."

The Countess raised her eyebrows.

"In India, then, one hears of everything!  Did that news please you?"

"Well, since you ask me--no."

"I understand that," said the Countess, looking at her open fan.  "I
shall not marry again like that."

"That's what your mother said to me," I ventured to observe.

She was not offended, but she rose from her seat and stood looking at me
a moment.  Then--"You should not have gone away!" she exclaimed.  I
stayed for another hour; it is a very pleasant house.

Two or three of the men who were sitting there seemed very civil and
intelligent; one of them was a major of engineers, who offered me a
profusion of information upon the new organisation of the Italian army.
While he talked, however, I was observing our hostess, who was talking
with the others; very little, I noticed, with her young Inglese.  She is
altogether charming--full of frankness and freedom, of that inimitable
_disinvoltura_ which in an Englishwoman would be vulgar, and which in her
is simply the perfection of apparent spontaneity.  But for all her
spontaneity she's as subtle as a needle-point, and knows tremendously
well what she is about.  If she is not a consummate coquette . . . What
had she in her head when she said that I should not have gone away?--Poor
little Stanmer didn't go away.  I left him there at midnight.

12th.--I found him today sitting in the church of Santa Croce, into which
I wandered to escape from the heat of the sun.

In the nave it was cool and dim; he was staring at the blaze of candles
on the great altar, and thinking, I am sure, of his incomparable
Countess.  I sat down beside him, and after a while, as if to avoid the
appearance of eagerness, he asked me how I had enjoyed my visit to Casa
Salvi, and what I thought of the _padrona_.

"I think half a dozen things," I said, "but I can only tell you one now.
She's an enchantress.  You shall hear the rest when we have left the
church."

"An enchantress?" repeated Stanmer, looking at me askance.

He is a very simple youth, but who am I to blame him?

"A charmer," I said "a fascinatress!"

He turned away, staring at the altar candles.

"An artist--an actress," I went on, rather brutally.

He gave me another glance.

"I think you are telling me all," he said.

"No, no, there is more."  And we sat a long time in silence.

At last he proposed that we should go out; and we passed in the street,
where the shadows had begun to stretch themselves.

"I don't know what you mean by her being an actress," he said, as we
turned homeward.

"I suppose not.  Neither should I have known, if any one had said that to
me."

"You are thinking about the mother," said Stanmer.  "Why are you always
bringing _her_ in?"

"My dear boy, the analogy is so great it forces itself upon me."

He stopped and stood looking at me with his modest, perplexed young face.
I thought he was going to exclaim--"The analogy be hanged!"--but he said
after a moment--

"Well, what does it prove?"

"I can't say it proves anything; but it suggests a great many things."

"Be so good as to mention a few," he said, as we walked on.

"You are not sure of her yourself," I began.

"Never mind that--go on with your analogy."

"That's a part of it.  You _are_ very much in love with her."

"That's a part of it too, I suppose?"

"Yes, as I have told you before.  You are in love with her, and yet you
can't make her out; that's just where I was with regard to Madame de
Salvi."

"And she too was an enchantress, an actress, an artist, and all the rest
of it?"

"She was the most perfect coquette I ever knew, and the most dangerous,
because the most finished."

"What you mean, then, is that her daughter is a finished coquette?"

"I rather think so."

Stanmer walked along for some moments in silence.

"Seeing that you suppose me to be a--a great admirer of the Countess," he
said at last, "I am rather surprised at the freedom with which you speak
of her."

I confessed that I was surprised at it myself.  "But it's on account of
the interest I take in you."

"I am immensely obliged to you!" said the poor boy.

"Ah, of course you don't like it.  That is, you like my interest--I don't
see how you can help liking that; but you don't like my freedom.  That's
natural enough; but, my dear young friend, I want only to help you.  If a
man had said to me--so many years ago--what I am saying to you, I should
certainly also, at first, have thought him a great brute.  But after a
little, I should have been grateful--I should have felt that he was
helping me."

"You seem to have been very well able to help yourself," said Stanmer.
"You tell me you made your escape."

"Yes, but it was at the cost of infinite perplexity--of what I may call
keen suffering.  I should like to save you all that."

"I can only repeat--it is really very kind of you."

"Don't repeat it too often, or I shall begin to think you don't mean it."

"Well," said Stanmer, "I think this, at any rate--that you take an
extraordinary responsibility in trying to put a man out of conceit of a
woman who, as he believes, may make him very happy."

I grasped his arm, and we stopped, going on with our talk like a couple
of Florentines.

"Do you wish to marry her?"

He looked away, without meeting my eyes.  "It's a great responsibility,"
he repeated.

"Before Heaven," I said, "I would have married the mother!  You are
exactly in my situation."

"Don't you think you rather overdo the analogy?" asked poor Stanmer.

"A little more, a little less--it doesn't matter.  I believe you are in
my shoes.  But of course if you prefer it, I will beg a thousand pardons
and leave them to carry you where they will."

He had been looking away, but now he slowly turned his face and met my
eyes.  "You have gone too far to retreat; what is it you know about her?"

"About this one--nothing.  But about the other--"

"I care nothing about the other!"

"My dear fellow," I said, "they are mother and daughter--they are as like
as two of Andrea's Madonnas."

"If they resemble each other, then, you were simply mistaken in the
mother."

I took his arm and we walked on again; there seemed no adequate reply to
such a charge.  "Your state of mind brings back my own so completely," I
said presently.  "You admire her--you adore her, and yet, secretly, you
mistrust her.  You are enchanted with her personal charm, her grace, her
wit, her everything; and yet in your private heart you are afraid of
her."

"Afraid of her?"

"Your mistrust keeps rising to the surface; you can't rid yourself of the
suspicion that at the bottom of all things she is hard and cruel, and you
would be immensely relieved if some one should persuade you that your
suspicion is right."

Stanmer made no direct reply to this; but before we reached the hotel he
said--"What did you ever know about the mother?"

"It's a terrible story," I answered.

He looked at me askance.  "What did she do?"

"Come to my rooms this evening and I will tell you."

He declared he would, but he never came.  Exactly the way I should have
acted!

14th.--I went again, last evening, to Casa Salvi, where I found the same
little circle, with the addition of a couple of ladies.  Stanmer was
there, trying hard to talk to one of them, but making, I am sure, a very
poor business of it.  The Countess--well, the Countess was admirable.  She
greeted me like a friend of ten years, toward whom familiarity should not
have engendered a want of ceremony; she made me sit near her, and she
asked me a dozen questions about my health and my occupations.

"I live in the past," I said.  "I go into the galleries, into the old
palaces and the churches.  Today I spent an hour in Michael Angelo's
chapel at San Loreozo."

"Ah yes, that's the past," said the Countess.  "Those things are very
old."

"Twenty-seven years old," I answered.

"Twenty-seven?  _Altro_!"

"I mean my own past," I said.  "I went to a great many of those places
with your mother."

"Ah, the pictures are beautiful," murmured the Countess, glancing at
Stanmer.

"Have you lately looked at any of them?" I asked.  "Have you gone to the
galleries with _him_?"

She hesitated a moment, smiling.  "It seems to me that your question is a
little impertinent.  But I think you are like that."

"A little impertinent?  Never.  As I say, your mother did me the honour,
more than once, to accompany me to the Uffizzi."

"My mother must have been very kind to you."

"So it seemed to me at the time."

"At the time only?"

"Well, if you prefer, so it seems to me now."

"Eh," said the Countess, "she made sacrifices."

"To what, cara Signora?  She was perfectly free.  Your lamented father
was dead--and she had not yet contracted her second marriage."

"If she was intending to marry again, it was all the more reason she
should have been careful."

I looked at her a moment; she met my eyes gravely, over the top of her
fan.  "Are _you_ very careful?" I said.

She dropped her fan with a certain violence.  "Ah, yes, you are
impertinent!"

"Ah no," I said.  "Remember that I am old enough to be your father; that
I knew you when you were three years old.  I may surely ask such
questions.  But you are right; one must do your mother justice.  She was
certainly thinking of her second marriage."

"You have not forgiven her that!" said the Countess, very gravely.

"Have you?" I asked, more lightly.

"I don't judge my mother.  That is a mortal sin.  My stepfather was very
kind to me."

"I remember him," I said; "I saw him a great many times--your mother
already received him."

My hostess sat with lowered eyes, saying nothing; but she presently
looked up.

"She was very unhappy with my father."

"That I can easily believe.  And your stepfather--is he still living?"

"He died--before my mother."

"Did he fight any more duels?"

"He was killed in a duel," said the Countess, discreetly.

It seems almost monstrous, especially as I can give no reason for it--but
this announcement, instead of shocking me, caused me to feel a strange
exhilaration.  Most assuredly, after all these years, I bear the poor man
no resentment.  Of course I controlled my manner, and simply remarked to
the Countess that as his fault had been so was his punishment.  I think,
however, that the feeling of which I speak was at the bottom of my saying
to her that I hoped that, unlike her mother's, her own brief married life
had been happy.

"If it was not," she said, "I have forgotten it now."--I wonder if the
late Count Scarabelli was also killed in a duel, and if his adversary . . .
Is it on the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by the
pistol?  Which of those gentlemen is he, I wonder?  Is it reserved for
poor little Stanmer to put a bullet into him?  No; poor little Stanmer, I
trust, will do as I did.  And yet, unfortunately for him, that woman is
consummately plausible.  She was wonderfully nice last evening; she was
really irresistible.  Such frankness and freedom, and yet something so
soft and womanly; such graceful gaiety, so much of the brightness,
without any of the stiffness, of good breeding, and over it all something
so picturesquely simple and southern.  She is a perfect Italian.  But she
comes honestly by it.  After the talk I have just jotted down she changed
her place, and the conversation for half an hour was general.  Stanmer
indeed said very little; partly, I suppose, because he is shy of talking
a foreign tongue.  Was I like that--was I so constantly silent?  I
suspect I was when I was perplexed, and Heaven knows that very often my
perplexity was extreme.  Before I went away I had a few more words _tete-
a-tete_ with the Countess.

"I hope you are not leaving Florence yet," she said; "you will stay a
while longer?"

I answered that I came only for a week, and that my week was over.

"I stay on from day to day, I am so much interested."

"Eh, it's the beautiful moment.  I'm glad our city pleases you!"

"Florence pleases me--and I take a paternal interest to our young
friend," I added, glancing at Stanmer.  "I have become very fond of him."

"_Bel tipo inglese_," said my hostess.  "And he is very intelligent; he
has a beautiful mind."

She stood there resting her smile and her clear, expressive eyes upon me.

"I don't like to praise him too much," I rejoined, "lest I should appear
to praise myself; he reminds me so much of what I was at his age.  If
your beautiful mother were to come to life for an hour she would see the
resemblance."

She gave me a little amused stare.

"And yet you don't look at all like him!"

"Ah, you didn't know me when I was twenty-five.  I was very handsome!
And, moreover, it isn't that, it's the mental resemblance.  I was
ingenuous, candid, trusting, like him."

"Trusting?  I remember my mother once telling me that you were the most
suspicious and jealous of men!"

"I fell into a suspicious mood, but I was, fundamentally, not in the
least addicted to thinking evil.  I couldn't easily imagine any harm of
any one."

"And so you mean that Mr. Stanmer is in a suspicions mood?"

"Well, I mean that his situation is the same as mine."

The Countess gave me one of her serious looks.  "Come," she said, "what
was it--this famous situation of yours?  I have heard you mention it
before."

"Your mother might have told you, since she occasionally did me the
honour to speak of me."

"All my mother ever told me was that you were--a sad puzzle to her."

At this, of course, I laughed out--I laugh still as I write it.

"Well, then, that was my situation--I was a sad puzzle to a very clever
woman."

"And you mean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to poor Mr. Stanmer?"

"He is racking his brains to make you out.  Remember it was you who said
he was intelligent."

She looked round at him, and as fortune would have it, his appearance at
that moment quite confirmed my assertion.  He was lounging back in his
chair with an air of indolence rather too marked for a drawing-room, and
staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who has just been
asked a conundrum.  Madame Scarabelli seemed struck with his attitude.

"Don't you see," I said, "he can't read the riddle?"

"You yourself," she answered, "said he was incapable of thinking evil.  I
should be sorry to have him think any evil of _me_."

And she looked straight at me--seriously, appealingly--with her beautiful
candid brow.

I inclined myself, smiling, in a manner which might have meant--"How
could that be possible?"

"I have a great esteem for him," she went on; "I want him to think well
of me.  If I am a puzzle to him, do me a little service.  Explain me to
him."

"Explain you, dear lady?"

"You are older and wiser than he.  Make him understand me."

She looked deep into my eyes for a moment, and then she turned away.

26th.--I have written nothing for a good many days, but meanwhile I have
been half a dozen times to Casa Salvi.  I have seen a good deal also of
my young friend--had a good many walks and talks with him.  I have
proposed to him to come with me to Venice for a fortnight, but he won't
listen to the idea of leaving Florence.  He is very happy in spite of his
doubts, and I confess that in the perception of his happiness I have
lived over again my own.  This is so much the case that when, the other
day, he at last made up his mind to ask me to tell him the wrong that
Madame de Salvi had done me, I rather checked his curiosity.  I told him
that if he was bent upon knowing I would satisfy him, but that it seemed
a pity, just now, to indulge in painful imagery.

"But I thought you wanted so much to put me out of conceit of our
friend."

"I admit I am inconsistent, but there are various reasons for it.  In the
first place--it's obvious--I am open to the charge of playing a double
game.  I profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli, for I accept
her hospitality, and at the same time I attempt to poison your mind;
isn't that the proper expression?  I can't exactly make up my mind to
that, though my admiration for the Countess and my desire to prevent you
from taking a foolish step are equally sincere.  And then, in the second
place, you seem to me, on the whole, so happy!  One hesitates to destroy
an illusion, no matter how pernicious, that is so delightful while it
lasts.  These are the rare moments of life.  To be young and ardent, in
the midst of an Italian spring, and to believe in the moral perfection of
a beautiful woman--what an admirable situation!  Float with the current;
I'll stand on the brink and watch you."

"Your real reason is that you feel you have no case against the poor
lady," said Stanmer.  "You admire her as much as I do."

"I just admitted that I admired her.  I never said she was a vulgar
flirt; her mother was an absolutely scientific one.  Heaven knows I
admired that!  It's a nice point, however, how much one is hound in
honour not to warn a young friend against a dangerous woman because one
also has relations of civility with the lady."

"In such a case," said Stanmer, "I would break off my relations."

I looked at him, and I think I laughed.

"Are you jealous of me, by chance?"

He shook his head emphatically.

"Not in the least; I like to see you there, because your conduct
contradicts your words."

"I have always said that the Countess is fascinating."

"Otherwise," said Stanmer, "in the case you speak of I would give the
lady notice."

"Give her notice?"

"Mention to her that you regard her with suspicion, and that you propose
to do your best to rescue a simple-minded youth from her wiles.  That
would be more loyal."  And he began to laugh again.

It is not the first time he has laughed at me; but I have never minded
it, because I have always understood it.

"Is that what you recommend me to say to the Countess?" I asked.

"Recommend you!" he exclaimed, laughing again; "I recommend nothing.  I
may be the victim to be rescued, but I am at least not a partner to the
conspiracy.  Besides," he added in a moment, "the Countess knows your
state of mind."

"Has she told you so?"

Stanmer hesitated.

"She has begged me to listen to everything you may say against her.  She
declares that she has a good conscience."

"Ah," said I, "she's an accomplished woman!"

And it is indeed very clever of her to take that tone.  Stanmer
afterwards assured me explicitly that he has never given her a hint of
the liberties I have taken in conversation with--what shall I call
it?--with her moral nature; she has guessed them for herself.  She must
hate me intensely, and yet her manner has always been so charming to me!
She is truly an accomplished woman!

May 4th.--I have stayed away from Casa Salvi for a week, but I have
lingered on in Florence, under a mixture of impulses.  I have had it on
my conscience not to go near the Countess again--and yet from the moment
she is aware of the way I feel about her, it is open war.  There need be
no scruples on either side.  She is as free to use every possible art to
entangle poor Stanmer more closely as I am to clip her fine-spun meshes.
Under the circumstances, however, we naturally shouldn't meet very
cordially.  But as regards her meshes, why, after all, should I clip
them?  It would really be very interesting to see Stanmer swallowed up.  I
should like to see how he would agree with her after she had devoured
him--(to what vulgar imagery, by the way, does curiosity reduce a man!)
Let him finish the story in his own way, as I finished it in mine.  It is
the same story; but why, a quarter of a century later, should it have the
same _denoument_?  Let him make his own _denoument_.

5_th_.--Hang it, however, I don't want the poor boy to be miserable.

6_th_.--Ah, but did my _denoument_ then prove such a happy one?

7_th_.--He came to my room late last night; he was much excited.

"What was it she did to you?" he asked.

I answered him first with another question.  "Have you quarrelled with
the Countess?"

But he only repeated his own.  "What was it she did to you?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you."  And he sat there beside the candle,
staring at me.  "There was a man always there--Count Camerino."

"The man she married?"

"The man she married.  I was very much in love with her, and yet I didn't
trust her.  I was sure that she lied; I believed that she could be cruel.
Nevertheless, at moments, she had a charm which made it pure pedantry to
be conscious of her faults; and while these moments lasted I would have
done anything for her.  Unfortunately they didn't last long.  But you
know what I mean; am I not describing the Scarabelli?"

"The Countess Scarabelli never lied!" cried Stanmer.

"That's just what I would have said to any one who should have made the
insinutation!  But I suppose you are not asking me the question you put
to me just now from dispassionate curiosity."

"A man may want to know!" said the innocent fellow.

I couldn't help laughing out.  "This, at any rate, is my story.  Camerino
was always there; he was a sort of fixture in the house.  If I had
moments of dislike for the divine Bianca, I had no moments of liking for
him.  And yet he was a very agreeable fellow, very civil, very
intelligent, not in the least disposed to make a quarrel with me.  The
trouble, of course, was simply that I was jealous of him.  I don't know,
however, on what ground I could have quarrelled with him, for I had no
definite rights.  I can't say what I expected--I can't say what, as the
matter stood, I was prepared to do.  With my name and my prospects, I
might perfectly have offered her my hand.  I am not sure that she would
have accepted it--I am by no means clear that she wanted that.  But she
wanted, wanted keenly, to attach me to her; she wanted to have me about.
I should have been capable of giving up everything--England, my career,
my family--simply to devote myself to her, to live near her and see her
every day."

"Why didn't you do it, then?" asked Stanmer.

"Why don't you?"

"To be a proper rejoinder to my question," he said, rather neatly, "yours
should be asked twenty-five years hence."

"It remains perfectly true that at a given moment I was capable of doing
as I say.  That was what she wanted--a rich, susceptible, credulous,
convenient young Englishman established near her _en permanence_.  And
yet," I added, "I must do her complete justice.  I honestly believe she
was fond of me."  At this Stanmer got up and walked to the window; he
stood looking out a moment, and then he turned round.  "You know she was
older than I," I went on.  "Madame Scarabelli is older than you.  One day
in the garden, her mother asked me in an angry tone why I disliked
Camerino; for I had been at no pains to conceal my feeling about him, and
something had just happened to bring it out.  'I dislike him,' I said,
'because you like him so much.'  'I assure you I don't like him,' she
answered.  'He has all the appearance of being your lover,' I retorted.
It was a brutal speech, certainly, but any other man in my place would
have made it.  She took it very strangely; she turned pale, but she was
not indignant.  'How can he be my lover after what he has done?' she
asked.  'What has he done?'  She hesitated a good while, then she said:
'He killed my husband.'  'Good heavens!' I cried, 'and you receive him!'
Do you know what she said?  She said, '_Che voule_?'"

"Is that all?" asked Stanmer.

"No; she went on to say that Camerino had killed Count Salvi in a duel,
and she admitted that her husband's jealousy had been the occasion of it.
The Count, it appeared, was a monster of jealousy--he had led her a
dreadful life.  He himself, meanwhile, had been anything but
irreproachable; he had done a mortal injury to a man of whom he pretended
to be a friend, and this affair had become notorious.  The gentleman in
question had demanded satisfaction for his outraged honour; but for some
reason or other (the Countess, to do her justice, did not tell me that
her husband was a coward), he had not as yet obtained it.  The duel with
Camerino had come on first; in an access of jealous fury the Count had
struck Camerino in the face; and this outrage, I know not how justly, was
deemed expiable before the other.  By an extraordinary arrangement (the
Italians have certainly no sense of fair play) the other man was allowed
to be Camerino's second.  The duel was fought with swords, and the Count
received a wound of which, though at first it was not expected to be
fatal, he died on the following day.  The matter was hushed up as much as
possible for the sake of the Countess's good name, and so successfully
that it was presently observed that, among the public, the other
gentleman had the credit of having put his blade through M. de Salvi.
This gentleman took a fancy not to contradict the impression, and it was
allowed to subsist.  So long as he consented, it was of course in
Camerino's interest not to contradict it, as it left him much more free
to keep up his intimacy with the Countess."

Stanmer had listened to all this with extreme attention.  "Why didn't
_she_ contradict it?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I am bound to believe it was for the same
reason.  I was horrified, at any rate, by the whole story.  I was
extremely shocked at the Countess's want of dignity in continuing to see
the man by whose hand her husband had fallen."

"The husband had been a great brute, and it was not known," said Stanmer.

"Its not being known made no difference.  And as for Salvi having been a
brute, that is but a way of saying that his wife, and the man whom his
wife subsequently married, didn't like him."

Stanmer hooked extremely meditative; his eyes were fixed on mine.  "Yes,
that marriage is hard to get over.  It was not becoming."

"Ah," said I, "what a long breath I drew when I heard of it!  I remember
the place and the hour.  It was at a hill-station in India, seven years
after I had left Florence.  The post brought me some English papers, and
in one of them was a letter from Italy, with a lot of so-called
'fashionable intelligence.'  There, among various scandals in high life,
and other delectable items, I read that the Countess Bianca Salvi, famous
for some years as the presiding genius of the most agreeable seen in
Florence, was about to bestow her hand upon Count Camerino, a
distinguished Bolognese.  Ah, my dear boy, it was a tremendous escape!  I
had been ready to marry the woman who was capable of that!  But my
instinct had warned me, and I had trusted my instinct."

"'Instinct's everything,' as Falstaff says!"  And Stanmer began to laugh.
"Did you tell Madame de Salvi that your instinct was against her?"

"No; I told her that she frightened me, shocked me, horrified me."

"That's about the same thing.  And what did she say?"

"She asked me what I would have?  I called her friendship with Camerino a
scandal, and she answered that her husband had been a brute.  Besides, no
one knew it; therefore it was no scandal.  Just _your_ argument!  I
retorted that this was odious reasoning, and that she had no moral sense.
We had a passionate argument, and I declared I would never see her again.
In the heat of my displeasure I left Florence, and I kept my vow.  I
never saw her again."

"You couldn't have been much in love with her," said Stanmer.

"I was not--three months after."

"If you had been you would have come back--three days after."

"So doubtless it seems to you.  All I can say is that it was the great
effort of my life.  Being a military man, I have had on various occasions
to face time enemy.  But it was not then I needed my resolution; it was
when I left Florence in a post-chaise."

Stanmer turned about the room two or three times, and then he said: "I
don't understand!  I don't understand why she should have told you that
Camerino had killed her husband.  It could only damage her."

"She was afraid it would damage her more that I should think he was her
lover.  She wished to say the thing that would most effectually persuade
me that he was not her lover--that he could never be.  And then she
wished to get the credit of being very frank."

"Good heavens, how you must have analysed her!" cried my companion,
staring.

"There is nothing so analytic as disillusionment.  But there it is.  She
married Camerino."

"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."

"_Che_! 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."

"You forget that I do know her."

"Oh no, you don't; you never did."  And he gave a little significant
laugh.

I didn't feel like facing the _ci-devant_ Scarabelli at that moment; so I
said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honour
of calling upon his wife.  We talked for a minute of something else, and
then, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on my
arm.  I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous.

"Depend upon it you were wrong!" he said.

"My dear young friend," I answered, "imagine the alacrity with which I
concede it."

Something else again was spoken of, but in an instant he repeated his
movement.

"Depend upon it you were wrong."

"I am sure the Countess has forgiven me," I said, "and in that case you
ought to bear no grudge.  As I have had the honour to say, I will call
upon her immediately."

"I was not alluding to my wife," he answered.  "I was thinking of your
own story."

"My own story?"

"So many years ago.  Was it not rather a mistake?"

I looked at him a moment; he's positively rosy.

"That's not a question to solve in a London crush."

And I turned away.

22d.--I haven't yet called on the _ci-devant_; I am afraid of finding her
at home.  And that boy's words have been thrumming in my ears--"Depend
upon it you were wrong.  Wasn't it rather a mistake?"  _Was_ I
wrong--_was_ it a mistake?  Was I too cautions--too suspicious--too
logical?  Was it really a protector she needed--a man who might have
helped her?  Would it have been for his benefit to believe in her, and
was her fault only that I had forsaken her?  Was the poor woman very
unhappy?  God forgive me, how the questions come crowding in!  If I
marred her happiness, I certainly didn't make my own.  And I might have
made it--eh?  That's a charming discovery for a man of my age!



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