The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 9

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