The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 6

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