The Diary of a Man of Fifty | Page 9

"Well," I went on, "he is peculiar in this: he is rather afraid of you."
Instantly she began to smile; she turned her face toward Stanmer. He
had seen that we were talking about him; he coloured and got up--then
came toward us.
"I like men who are afraid of nothing," said our hostess.
"I know what you want," I said to Stanmer. "You want to know what
the Signora Contessa says about you."
Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely. "I don't care a
straw what she says."
"You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa," I answered. "She
declares she doesn't care a pin's head what you think."
"I recognise the Countess's style!" Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.
"One would think," said the Countess, "that you were trying to make a
quarrel between us."
I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood
in front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeing
it; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood there in just that
way. "He can't quarrel with you, any more than I could 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