The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 4

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?"