The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 6

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