The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 8

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