The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 7

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 appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and there is a
charming old garden beyond it. The Countess's sitting- room looks into
that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there is a medallion
by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where it makes a
bend. Before you come into the drawing-room you stand a moment in a
great vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved with bare
tiles, and furnished only with three chairs. In the drawing-room, above
the fireplace, is a superb Andrea del Sarto. The furniture is covered
with pale sea-green."
My companion listened to all this.
"The Andrea del Sarto is there; it's magnificent. But the furniture is in
pale red."
"Ah, they have changed it, then--in twenty-seven years."
"And there's a portrait of Madame de Salvi," continued my friend.
I was silent a moment. "I should like to see that."
He too was silent. Then he asked, "Why don't you go and see it? If you
knew the mother so well, why don't you call upon the daughter?"
"From what you tell me I am afraid."

"What have I told you to make you afraid?"
I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance. "The mother was a very
dangerous woman."
The young Englishman began to blush again. "The daughter is not," he
said.
"Are you very sure?"
He didn't say he was sure, but he presently inquired in what way the
Countess Salvi had been dangerous.
"You must not ask me that," I answered "for after all, I desire to
remember only what was good in her." And as we walked back I
begged him to render me the service of mentioning my name to his
friend, and of saying that I had known her mother well, and that I asked
permission to come and see her.
9th.--I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a most
amiable young fellow he is. He continues to represent to me, in the
most extraordinary manner, my own young identity; the
correspondence is perfect at all points, save that he is a better boy than I.
He is evidently acutely interested in his Countess, and leads quite the
same life with her that I led with Madame de Salvi. He goes to see her
every evening and stays half the night; these Florentines keep the most
extraordinary hours. I remember, towards 3 A.M., Madame de Salvi
used to turn me out.--"Come, come," she would say, "it's time to go. If
you were to stay later people might talk." I don't know at what time he
comes home, but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did.
Today he brought me a message from his Contessa--a very gracious
little speech. She remembered often to have heard her mother speak of
me--she called me her English friend. All her mother's friends were
dear to her, and she begged I would do her the honour to come and see
her. She is always at home of an evening. Poor young Stanmer (he is of
the Devonshire Stanmers--a great property) reported this speech
verbatim, and of course it can't in the least signify to him that a poor
grizzled, battered soldier, old enough to be his father, should come to
call upon his inammorata. But I remember how it used to matter to me
when other men came; that's a point of difference. However, it's only
because I'm so old. At twenty-five I shouldn't have been afraid of
myself at fifty-two. Camerino was thirty-four--and then the others! She
was always at home in the evening, and they all used to come. They

were old Florentine names. But she used to let me stay after them all;
she thought an old English name as good. What a transcendent
coquette! . . . But basta cosi as she used to say.