THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTYby Henry James Florence, _April 5th_, 1874. --They told me I should find Italy greatlychanged; and in seven-and-twenty years there is room for changes. But tome everything is so perfectly the same that I seem to be living my youthover again; all the forgotten impressions of that enchanting time comeback to me. At the moment they were powerful enough; but they afterwardsfaded away. What in the world became of them? Whatever becomes of suchthings, in the long intervals of consciousness? Where do they hidethemselves away? in what unvisited cupboards and crannies of our being dothey preserve themselves? They are like the lines of a letter written insympathetic ink; hold the letter to the fire for a while and the gratefulwarmth brings out the invisible words. It is the warmth of this yellowsun of Florence that has been restoring the text of my own young romance;the thing has been lying before me today as a clear, fresh page. Therehave been moments during the last ten years when I have fell soportentously old, so fagged and finished, that I should have taken as avery bad joke any intimation that this present sense of juvenility wasstill in store for me. It won't last, at any rate; so I had better makethe best of it. But I confess it surprises me. I have led too serious alife; but that perhaps, after all, preserves one's youth. At all events, I have travelled too far, I have worked too hard, I have lived in brutalclimates and associated with tiresome people. When a man has reached hisfifty-second year without being, materially, the worse for wear--when hehas fair health, a fair fortune, a tidy conscience and a completeexemption from embarrassing relatives--I suppose he is bound, indelicacy, to write himself happy. But I confess I shirk this obligation. I have not been miserable; I won't go so far as to say that--or at leastas to write it. But happiness--positive happiness--would have beensomething different. I don't know that it would have been better, by allmeasurements--that it would have left me better off at the present time. But it certainly would have made this difference--that I should not havebeen reduced, in pursuit of pleasant images, to disinter a buried episodeof more than a quarter of a century ago. I should have foundentertainment more--what shall I call it?--more contemporaneous. Ishould have had a wife and children, and I should not be in the way ofmaking, as the French say, infidelities to the present. Of course it's agreat gain to have had an escape, not to have committed an act ofthumping folly; and I suppose that, whatever serious step one might havetaken at twenty-five, after a struggle, and with a violent effort, andhowever one's conduct might appear to be justified by events, there wouldalways remain a certain element of regret; a certain sense of losslurking 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 verycheerful and comfortable; but there are nevertheless two or threequestions I might ask myself. Why, for instance, have I nevermarried--why have I never been able to care for any woman as I cared forthat 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 havespent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place. Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the sametime; 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 theflowers, 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 hourin the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together. I rememberall those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday. I found thecorner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, infront of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona justbeside it. The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona haslost one of her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour, and itwas strange how near to me she seemed. The place was perfectlyempty--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 wemake such an ado about death? What is it, after all, but a sort ofrefinement of life? She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there inthe sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence. I wentafterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour fromroom to room. The same great pictures hung in the same places, and thesame dark frescoes arched above them. Twice, of old, I went there withher; she had a great understanding of art. She understood all sorts ofthings. Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time. The faceis not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her. Buteverything does that. We stood and looked at it together once for halfan hour; I remember perfectly what she said. 8th. --Yesterday I felt blue--blue and bored; and when I got up thismorning I had half a mind to leave Florence. But I went out into thestreet, beside the Arno, and looked up and down--looked at the yellowriver and the violet hills, and then decided to remain--or rather, Idecided nothing. I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, andbefore I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was toolate to start for Rome. I strolled along the quay, where somethingpresently happened that rewarded me for staying. I stopped in front of alittle jeweller's shop, where a great many objects in mosaic were exposedin the window; I stood there for some minutes--I don't know why, for Ihave no taste for mosaic. In a moment a little girl came and stoodbeside me--a little girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. Iturned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened to fall on her basket. Itwas 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 aname on it I knew. It was very legibly written--evidently by a scribewho had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. _ContessaSalvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina_--so ran the superscription; I looked atit for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion. Presently the littlegirl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with apair 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?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay. "I mean, have you seen her?" "Yes, I have seen her. " And then, in a moment, with a sudden softsmile--"_E bella_!" said the little girl. She was beautiful herself asshe said it. "Precisely; and is she fair or dark?" The child kept gazing at me. "_Bionda--bionda_, " she answered, lookingabout into the golden sunshine for a comparison. "And is she young?" "She is not young--like me. But she is not old like--like--" "Like me, eh? And is she married?" The little girl began to look wise. "I have never seen the SignorConte. " "And she lives in Via Ghibellina?" "_Sicuro_. In a beautiful palace. " I had one more question to ask, and I pointed it with certain coppercoins. "Tell me a little--is she good?" The child inspected a moment the contents of her little brown fist. "It'syou who are good, " she answered. "Ah, but the Countess?" I repeated. My informant lowered her big brown eyes, with an air of conscientiousmeditation that was inexpressibly quaint. "To me she appears so, " shesaid at last, looking up. "Ah, then, she must be so, " I said, "because, for your age, you are veryintelligent. " And having delivered myself of this compliment I walkedaway and left the little girl counting her _soldi_. I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could learn something aboutthe Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli. In the doorway I found the innkeeper, andnear him stood a young man whom I immediately perceived to be acompatriot, and with whom, apparently, he had been in conversation. "I wonder whether you can give me a piece of information, " I said to thelandlord. "Do you know anything about the Count Salvi-Scarabelli?" The landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly raised his shoulders, with a melancholy smile. "I have many regrets, dear sir--" "You don't know the name?" "I know the name, assuredly. But I don't know the gentleman. " I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the youngEnglishman, who looked at me with a good deal of earnestness. He wasapparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided to speak. "The Count Scarabelli is dead, " he said, very gravely. I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing young fellow. "And his widowlives, " I observed, "in Via Ghibellina?" "I daresay that is the name of the street. " He was a handsome youngEnglishman, but he was also an awkward one; he wondered who I was andwhat I wanted, and he did me the honour to perceive that, as regardsthese points, my appearance was reassuring. But he hesitated, veryproperly, to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady whom he knew, andhe had not the art to conceal his hesitation. I instantly felt it to besingular that though he regarded me as a perfect stranger, I had not thesame feeling about him. Whether it was that I had seen him before, orsimply that I was struck with his agreeable young face--at any rate, Ifelt myself, as they say here, in sympathy with him. If I have seen himbefore I don't remember the occasion, and neither, apparently, does he; Isuppose it's only a part of the feeling I have had the last three daysabout everything. It was this feeling that made me suddenly act as if Ihad known him a long time. "Do you know the Countess Salvi?" I asked. He looked at me a little, and then, without resenting the freedom of myquestion--"The Countess Scarabelli, you mean, " he said. "Yes, " I answered; "she's the daughter. " "The daughter is a little girl. " "She must be grown up now. She must be--let me see--close upon thirty. " My young Englishman began to smile. "Of whom are you speaking?" "I was speaking of the daughter, " I said, understanding his smile. "ButI was thinking of the mother. " "Of the mother?" "Of a person I knew twenty-seven years ago--the most charming woman Ihave ever known. She was the Countess Salvi--she lived in a wonderfulold house in Via Ghibellina. " "A wonderful old house!" my young Englishman repeated. "She had a little girl, " I went on; "and the little girl was very fair, like her mother; and the mother and daughter had the same name--Bianca. "I stopped and looked at my companion, and he blushed a little. "AndBianca Salvi, " I continued, "was the most charming woman in the world. "He blushed a little more, and I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Do youknow why I tell you this? Because you remind me of what I was when Iknew her--when I loved her. " My poor young Englishman gazed at me with asort of embarrassed and fascinated stare, and still I went on. "I saythat'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 acharming young fellow. The Countess Salvi thought so. Her daughterthinks 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 mystate of mind. I wanted tremendously to please her. " He dropped hishand and looked away, smiling, but with an air of ingenuous confusionwhich 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 inthis way and pretend to read your thoughts. Doubtless you think me alittle cracked. Perhaps I am eccentric; but it's not so bad as that. Ihave lived about the world a great deal, following my profession, whichis that of a soldier. I have been in India, in Africa, in Canada, and Ihave lived a good deal alone. That inclines people, I think, to suddenbursts of confidence. A week ago I came into Italy, where I spent sixmonths when I was your age. I came straight to Florence--I was eager tosee it again, on account of associations. They have been crowding uponme ever so thickly. I have taken the liberty of giving you a hint ofthem. " The young man inclined himself a little, in silence, as if he hadbeen struck with a sudden respect. He stood and looked away for a momentat 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, weare fellow-travellers. We will walk down the Arno to the Cascine. Thereare several things I should like to ask of you. " My young Englishman assented with an air of almost filial confidence, andwe strolled for an hour beside the river and through the shady alleys ofthat lovely wilderness. We had a great deal of talk: it's not onlymyself, 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 veryreasonable, 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 tobeauty. " "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 veryfond 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 thegroup of painters he preferred, on the whole, to all others, was that ofthe early Florentines. I was so struck with this that I stopped short. "That was exactly mytaste!" And then I passed my hand into his arm and we went our wayagain. We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine, and a solemn blank-eyedHermes, with wrinkles accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us andlistened 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 diedbefore 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 besaid about her. Later, perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter thesame charm?" "You forget, " said my young man, smiling, "that I have never seen themother. " "Very true. I keep confounding. But the daughter--how long have youknown 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 have made. A week, a month--it was allthe 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 letterto Madame de Salvi died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly. Idon't know why it never came into my mind that her daughter might beliving in Florence. Somehow I took for granted it was all over. I neverthought of the little girl; I never heard what had become of her. Iwalked past the palace yesterday and saw that it was occupied; but I tookfor granted it had changed hands. " "The Countess Scarabelli, " said my friend, "brought it to her husband asher marriage-portion. " "I hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and thereis a charming old garden beyond it. The Countess's sitting-room looksinto that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there is amedallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where itmakes a bend. Before you come into the drawing-room you stand a momentin a great vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved with baretiles, and furnished only with three chairs. In the drawing-room, abovethe fireplace, is a superb Andrea del Sarto. The furniture is coveredwith pale sea-green. " My companion listened to all this. "The Andrea del Sarto is there; it's magnificent. But the furniture isin 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 youknew 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 verydangerous woman. " The young Englishman began to blush again. "The daughter is not, " hesaid. "Are you very sure?" He didn't say he was sure, but he presently inquired in what way theCountess Salvi had been dangerous. "You must not ask me that, " I answered "for after all, I desire toremember only what was good in her. " And as we walked back I begged himto render me the service of mentioning my name to his friend, and ofsaying that I had known her mother well, and that I asked permission tocome and see her. 9th. --I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a mostamiable young fellow he is. He continues to represent to me, in the mostextraordinary manner, my own young identity; the correspondence isperfect at all points, save that he is a better boy than I. He isevidently acutely interested in his Countess, and leads quite the samelife with her that I led with Madame de Salvi. He goes to see her everyevening and stays half the night; these Florentines keep the mostextraordinary hours. I remember, towards 3 A. M. , Madame de Salvi used toturn me out. --"Come, come, " she would say, "it's time to go. If you wereto stay later people might talk. " I don't know at what time he comeshome, but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did. Today hebrought me a message from his Contessa--a very gracious little speech. She remembered often to have heard her mother speak of me--she called meher English friend. All her mother's friends were dear to her, and shebegged I would do her the honour to come and see her. She is always athome of an evening. Poor young Stanmer (he is of the DevonshireStanmers--a great property) reported this speech verbatim, and of courseit can't in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled, batteredsoldier, 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 mencame; that's a point of difference. However, it's only because I'm soold. 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 inthe 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 Englishname as good. What a transcendent coquette! . . . But _basta cosi_ asshe used to say. I meant to go tonight to Casa Salvi, but I couldn'tbring myself to the point. I don't know what I'm afraid of; I used to bein a hurry enough to go there once. I suppose I am afraid of the verylook of the place--of the old rooms, the old walls. I shall go tomorrownight. I am afraid of the very echoes. 10th. --She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her mother. When Iwent in I was tremendously startled; I stood starting at her. I havejust come home; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening at CasaSalvi. It is very warm--my window is open--I can look out on the rivergliding past in the starlight. So, of old, when I came home, I used tostand and look out. There are the same cypresses on the opposite hills. Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four other admirers; they allgot up when I came in. I think I had been talked about, and there wassome curiosity. But why should I have been talked about? They were allyoungish men--none of them of my time. She is a wonderful likeness ofher mother; I couldn't get over it. Beautiful like her mother, and yetwith the same faults in her face; but with her mother's perfect head andbrow and sympathetic, almost pitying, eyes. Her face has just thatpeculiarity of her mother's, which, of all human countenances that I haveever known, was the one that passed most quickly and completely from theexpression of gaiety to that of repose. Repose in her face alwayssuggested sadness; and while you were watching it with a kind of awe, andwondering of what tragic secret it was the token, it kindled, on theinstant, into a radiant Italian smile. The Countess Scarabelli's smilestonight, however, were almost uninterrupted. She greeted me--divinely, as her mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of thesofa--as I used to do--and watched her while she talked. She is thin andvery fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that completes theresemblance. The house, the rooms, are almost absolutely the same; theremay be changes of detail, but they don't modify the general effect. Thereare the same precious pictures on the walls of the salon--the same greatdusky fresco in the concave ceiling. The daughter is not rich, Isuppose, any more than the mother. The furniture is worn and faded, andI was admitted by a solitary servant, who carried a twinkling taperbefore me up the great dark marble staircase. "I have often heard of you, " said the Countess, as I sat down near her;"my mother often spoke of you. " "Often?" I answered. "I am surprised at that. " "Why are you surprised? Were you not good friends?" "Yes, for a certain time--very good friends. But I was sure she hadforgotten me. " "She never forgot, " said the Countess, looking at me intently andsmiling. "She was not like that. " "She was not like most other women in any way, " I declared. "Ah, she was charming, " cried the Countess, rattling open her fan. "Ihave always been very curious to see you. I have received an impressionof you. " "A good one, I hope. " She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this: it was just hermother's trick. "'My Englishman, ' she used to call you--'_il mio Inglese_. '" "I hope she spoke of me kindly, " I insisted. The Countess, still laughing, gave a little shrug balancing her hand toand fro. "So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel. You don'tmind my being frank like this--eh?" "I delight in it; it reminds me of your mother. " "Every one tells me that. But I am not clever like her. You will seefor yourself. " "That speech, " I said, "completes the resemblance. She was alwayspretending she was not clever, and in reality--" "In reality she was an angel, eh? To escape from dangerous comparisons Iwill admit, then, that I am clever. That will make a difference. Butlet us talk of you. You are very--how shall I say it?--very eccentric. " "Is that what your mother told you?" "To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original. But aren't allEnglishmen eccentric? All except that one!" and the Countess pointed topoor Stanmer, in his corner of the sofa. "Oh, I know just what he is, " I said. "He's as quiet as a lamb--he's like all the world, " cried the Countess. "Like all the world--yes. He is in love with you. " She looked at me with sudden gravity. "I don't object to your sayingthat for all the world--but I do for him. " "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 hadseen that we were talking about him; he coloured and got up--then cametoward 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 theSignora Contessa says about you. " Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely. "I don't care astraw what she says. " "You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa, " I answered. "Shedeclares 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 aquarrel between us. " I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood infront of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeingit; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood there in justthat way. "He can't quarrel with you, any more than I could havequarrelled 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 andnever saw her again. That was all. " The Countess looked at me gravely. "What do you call it when a man doesthat?" "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. Whathad my poor mother done to you?" I looked at our young Englishman, who still had his back turned to us andwas staring up at the picture. "I will tell you some other time, " Isaid. "I shall certainly remind you; I am very curious to know. " Then sheopened and shut her fan two or three times, still looking at me. Whateyes they have! "Tell me a little, " she went on, "if I may ask withoutindiscretion. 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 havelived in India. It was very kind of you, so far away, to have rememberedour poor dear Italy. " "One always remembers Italy; the distance makes no difference. Iremembered 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 Idon'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 tellme about yourself, dear lady, " I asked at last, raising my eyes. "Youhave also had the sorrow of losing your husband. " "I am a poor widow, as you see. _Che vuole_? My husband died afterthree years of marriage. " I waited for her to remark that the late Count Scarabelli was also asaint 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 ofthe 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'ssecond 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. "Ishall 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 mea moment. Then--"You should not have gone away!" she exclaimed. Istayed for another hour; it is a very pleasant house. Two or three of the men who were sitting there seemed very civil andintelligent; one of them was a major of engineers, who offered me aprofusion of information upon the new organisation of the Italian army. While he talked, however, I was observing our hostess, who was talkingwith the others; very little, I noticed, with her young Inglese. She isaltogether charming--full of frankness and freedom, of that inimitable_disinvoltura_ which in an Englishwoman would be vulgar, and which in heris simply the perfection of apparent spontaneity. But for all herspontaneity she's as subtle as a needle-point, and knows tremendouslywell what she is about. If she is not a consummate coquette . . . Whathad she in her head when she said that I should not have gone away?--Poorlittle Stanmer didn't go away. I left him there at midnight. 12th. --I found him today sitting in the church of Santa Croce, into whichI wandered to escape from the heat of the sun. In the nave it was cool and dim; he was staring at the blaze of candleson the great altar, and thinking, I am sure, of his incomparableCountess. I sat down beside him, and after a while, as if to avoid theappearance of eagerness, he asked me how I had enjoyed my visit to CasaSalvi, 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 thechurch. " "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 another glance. "I think you are telling me all, " he said. "No, no, there is more. " And we sat a long time in silence. At last he proposed that we should go out; and we passed in the street, where the shadows had begun to stretch themselves. "I don't know what you mean by her being an actress, " he said, as weturned homeward. "I suppose not. Neither should I have known, if any one had said that tome. " "You are thinking about the mother, " said Stanmer. "Why are you alwaysbringing _her_ in?" "My dear boy, the analogy is so great it forces itself upon me. " He stopped and stood looking at me with his modest, perplexed young face. I thought he was going to exclaim--"The analogy be hanged!"--but he saidafter a moment-- "Well, what does it prove?" "I can't say it proves anything; but it suggests a great many things. " "Be so good as to mention a few, " he said, as we walked on. "You are not sure of her yourself, " I began. "Never mind that--go on with your analogy. " "That's a part of it. You _are_ very much in love with her. " "That's a part of it too, I suppose?" "Yes, as I have told you before. You are in love with her, and yet youcan't make her out; that's just where I was with regard to Madame deSalvi. " "And she too was an enchantress, an actress, an artist, and all the restof it?" "She was the most perfect coquette I ever knew, and the most dangerous, because the most finished. " "What you mean, then, is that her daughter is a finished coquette?" "I rather think so. " Stanmer walked along for some moments in silence. "Seeing that you suppose me to be a--a great admirer of the Countess, " hesaid at last, "I am rather surprised at the freedom with which you speakof her. " I confessed that I was surprised at it myself. "But it's on account ofthe interest I take in you. " "I am immensely obliged to you!" said the poor boy. "Ah, of course you don't like it. That is, you like my interest--I don'tsee how you can help liking that; but you don't like my freedom. That'snatural enough; but, my dear young friend, I want only to help you. If aman had said to me--so many years ago--what I am saying to you, I shouldcertainly also, at first, have thought him a great brute. But after alittle, I should have been grateful--I should have felt that he washelping me. " "You seem to have been very well able to help yourself, " said Stanmer. "You tell me you made your escape. " "Yes, but it was at the cost of infinite perplexity--of what I may callkeen suffering. I should like to save you all that. " "I can only repeat--it is really very kind of you. " "Don't repeat it too often, or I shall begin to think you don't mean it. " "Well, " said Stanmer, "I think this, at any rate--that you take anextraordinary responsibility in trying to put a man out of conceit of awoman who, as he believes, may make him very happy. " I grasped his arm, and we stopped, going on with our talk like a coupleof Florentines. "Do you wish to marry her?" He looked away, without meeting my eyes. "It's a great responsibility, "he repeated. "Before Heaven, " I said, "I would have married the mother! You areexactly in my situation. " "Don't you think you rather overdo the analogy?" asked poor Stanmer. "A little more, a little less--it doesn't matter. I believe you are inmy shoes. But of course if you prefer it, I will beg a thousand pardonsand leave them to carry you where they will. " He had been looking away, but now he slowly turned his face and met myeyes. "You have gone too far to retreat; what is it you know about her?" "About this one--nothing. But about the other--" "I care nothing about the other!" "My dear fellow, " I said, "they are mother and daughter--they are as likeas two of Andrea's Madonnas. " "If they resemble each other, then, you were simply mistaken in themother. " I took his arm and we walked on again; there seemed no adequate reply tosuch a charge. "Your state of mind brings back my own so completely, " Isaid presently. "You admire her--you adore her, and yet, secretly, youmistrust her. You are enchanted with her personal charm, her grace, herwit, her everything; and yet in your private heart you are afraid ofher. " "Afraid of her?" "Your mistrust keeps rising to the surface; you can't rid yourself of thesuspicion that at the bottom of all things she is hard and cruel, and youwould be immensely relieved if some one should persuade you that yoursuspicion is right. " Stanmer made no direct reply to this; but before we reached the hotel hesaid--"What did you ever know about the mother?" "It's a terrible story, " I answered. He looked at me askance. "What did she do?" "Come to my rooms this evening and I will tell you. " He declared he would, but he never came. Exactly the way I should haveacted! 14th. --I went again, last evening, to Casa Salvi, where I found the samelittle circle, with the addition of a couple of ladies. Stanmer wasthere, trying hard to talk to one of them, but making, I am sure, a verypoor business of it. The Countess--well, the Countess was admirable. Shegreeted me like a friend of ten years, toward whom familiarity should nothave engendered a want of ceremony; she made me sit near her, and sheasked me a dozen questions about my health and my occupations. "I live in the past, " I said. "I go into the galleries, into the oldpalaces and the churches. Today I spent an hour in Michael Angelo'schapel at San Loreozo. " "Ah yes, that's the past, " said the Countess. "Those things are veryold. " "Twenty-seven years old, " I answered. "Twenty-seven? _Altro_!" "I mean my own past, " I said. "I went to a great many of those placeswith your mother. " "Ah, the pictures are beautiful, " murmured the Countess, glancing atStanmer. "Have you lately looked at any of them?" I asked. "Have you gone to thegalleries with _him_?" She hesitated a moment, smiling. "It seems to me that your question is alittle impertinent. But I think you are like that. " "A little impertinent? Never. As I say, your mother did me the honour, more than once, to accompany me to the Uffizzi. " "My mother must have been very kind to you. " "So it seemed to me at the time. " "At the time only?" "Well, if you prefer, so it seems to me now. " "Eh, " said the Countess, "she made sacrifices. " "To what, cara Signora? She was perfectly free. Your lamented fatherwas dead--and she had not yet contracted her second marriage. " "If she was intending to marry again, it was all the more reason sheshould have been careful. " I looked at her a moment; she met my eyes gravely, over the top of herfan. "Are _you_ very careful?" I said. She dropped her fan with a certain violence. "Ah, yes, you areimpertinent!" "Ah no, " I said. "Remember that I am old enough to be your father; thatI knew you when you were three years old. I may surely ask suchquestions. But you are right; one must do your mother justice. She wascertainly thinking of her second marriage. " "You have not forgiven her that!" said the Countess, very gravely. "Have you?" I asked, more lightly. "I don't judge my mother. That is a mortal sin. My stepfather was verykind to me. " "I remember him, " I said; "I saw him a great many times--your motheralready received him. " My hostess sat with lowered eyes, saying nothing; but she presentlylooked up. "She was very unhappy with my father. " "That I can easily believe. And your stepfather--is he still living?" "He died--before my mother. " "Did he fight any more duels?" "He was killed in a duel, " said the Countess, discreetly. It seems almost monstrous, especially as I can give no reason for it--butthis announcement, instead of shocking me, caused me to feel a strangeexhilaration. Most assuredly, after all these years, I bear the poor manno resentment. Of course I controlled my manner, and simply remarked tothe Countess that as his fault had been so was his punishment. I think, however, that the feeling of which I speak was at the bottom of my sayingto her that I hoped that, unlike her mother's, her own brief married lifehad been happy. "If it was not, " she said, "I have forgotten it now. "--I wonder if thelate Count Scarabelli was also killed in a duel, and if his adversary . . . Is it on the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by thepistol? Which of those gentlemen is he, I wonder? Is it reserved forpoor little Stanmer to put a bullet into him? No; poor little Stanmer, Itrust, will do as I did. And yet, unfortunately for him, that woman isconsummately plausible. She was wonderfully nice last evening; she wasreally irresistible. Such frankness and freedom, and yet something sosoft and womanly; such graceful gaiety, so much of the brightness, without any of the stiffness, of good breeding, and over it all somethingso picturesquely simple and southern. She is a perfect Italian. But shecomes honestly by it. After the talk I have just jotted down she changedher place, and the conversation for half an hour was general. Stanmerindeed said very little; partly, I suppose, because he is shy of talkinga foreign tongue. Was I like that--was I so constantly silent? Isuspect I was when I was perplexed, and Heaven knows that very often myperplexity was extreme. Before I went away I had a few more words _tete-a-tete_ with the Countess. "I hope you are not leaving Florence yet, " she said; "you will stay awhile longer?" I answered that I came only for a week, and that my week was over. "I stay on from day to day, I am so much interested. " "Eh, it's the beautiful moment. I'm glad our city pleases you!" "Florence pleases me--and I take a paternal interest to our youngfriend, " I added, glancing at Stanmer. "I have become very fond of him. " "_Bel tipo inglese_, " said my hostess. "And he is very intelligent; hehas a beautiful mind. " She stood there resting her smile and her clear, expressive eyes upon me. "I don't like to praise him too much, " I rejoined, "lest I should appearto praise myself; he reminds me so much of what I was at his age. Ifyour beautiful mother were to come to life for an hour she would see theresemblance. " She gave me a little amused stare. "And yet you don't look at all like him!" "Ah, you didn't know me when I was twenty-five. I was very handsome!And, moreover, it isn't that, it's the mental resemblance. I wasingenuous, candid, trusting, like him. " "Trusting? I remember my mother once telling me that you were the mostsuspicious and jealous of men!" "I fell into a suspicious mood, but I was, fundamentally, not in theleast addicted to thinking evil. I couldn't easily imagine any harm ofany one. " "And so you mean that Mr. Stanmer is in a suspicions mood?" "Well, I mean that his situation is the same as mine. " The Countess gave me one of her serious looks. "Come, " she said, "whatwas it--this famous situation of yours? I have heard you mention itbefore. " "Your mother might have told you, since she occasionally did me thehonour to speak of me. " "All my mother ever told me was that you were--a sad puzzle to her. " At this, of course, I laughed out--I laugh still as I write it. "Well, then, that was my situation--I was a sad puzzle to a very cleverwoman. " "And you mean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to poor Mr. Stanmer?" "He is racking his brains to make you out. Remember it was you who saidhe was intelligent. " She looked round at him, and as fortune would have it, his appearance atthat moment quite confirmed my assertion. He was lounging back in hischair with an air of indolence rather too marked for a drawing-room, andstaring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who has just beenasked a conundrum. Madame Scarabelli seemed struck with his attitude. "Don't you see, " I said, "he can't read the riddle?" "You yourself, " she answered, "said he was incapable of thinking evil. Ishould be sorry to have him think any evil of _me_. " And she looked straight at me--seriously, appealingly--with her beautifulcandid brow. I inclined myself, smiling, in a manner which might have meant--"Howcould that be possible?" "I have a great esteem for him, " she went on; "I want him to think wellof me. If I am a puzzle to him, do me a little service. Explain me tohim. " "Explain you, dear lady?" "You are older and wiser than he. Make him understand me. " She looked deep into my eyes for a moment, and then she turned away. 26th. --I have written nothing for a good many days, but meanwhile I havebeen half a dozen times to Casa Salvi. I have seen a good deal also ofmy young friend--had a good many walks and talks with him. I haveproposed to him to come with me to Venice for a fortnight, but he won'tlisten to the idea of leaving Florence. He is very happy in spite of hisdoubts, and I confess that in the perception of his happiness I havelived over again my own. This is so much the case that when, the otherday, he at last made up his mind to ask me to tell him the wrong thatMadame de Salvi had done me, I rather checked his curiosity. I told himthat if he was bent upon knowing I would satisfy him, but that it seemeda pity, just now, to indulge in painful imagery. "But I thought you wanted so much to put me out of conceit of ourfriend. " "I admit I am inconsistent, but there are various reasons for it. In thefirst place--it's obvious--I am open to the charge of playing a doublegame. I profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli, for I accepther hospitality, and at the same time I attempt to poison your mind;isn't that the proper expression? I can't exactly make up my mind tothat, though my admiration for the Countess and my desire to prevent youfrom taking a foolish step are equally sincere. And then, in the secondplace, you seem to me, on the whole, so happy! One hesitates to destroyan illusion, no matter how pernicious, that is so delightful while itlasts. These are the rare moments of life. To be young and ardent, inthe midst of an Italian spring, and to believe in the moral perfection ofa beautiful woman--what an admirable situation! Float with the current;I'll stand on the brink and watch you. " "Your real reason is that you feel you have no case against the poorlady, " said Stanmer. "You admire her as much as I do. " "I just admitted that I admired her. I never said she was a vulgarflirt; her mother was an absolutely scientific one. Heaven knows Iadmired that! It's a nice point, however, how much one is hound inhonour not to warn a young friend against a dangerous woman because onealso has relations of civility with the lady. " "In such a case, " said Stanmer, "I would break off my relations. " I looked at him, and I think I laughed. "Are you jealous of me, by chance?" He shook his head emphatically. "Not in the least; I like to see you there, because your conductcontradicts your words. " "I have always said that the Countess is fascinating. " "Otherwise, " said Stanmer, "in the case you speak of I would give thelady notice. " "Give her notice?" "Mention to her that you regard her with suspicion, and that you proposeto do your best to rescue a simple-minded youth from her wiles. Thatwould be more loyal. " And he began to laugh again. It is not the first time he has laughed at me; but I have never mindedit, because I have always understood it. "Is that what you recommend me to say to the Countess?" I asked. "Recommend you!" he exclaimed, laughing again; "I recommend nothing. Imay be the victim to be rescued, but I am at least not a partner to theconspiracy. Besides, " he added in a moment, "the Countess knows yourstate of mind. " "Has she told you so?" Stanmer hesitated. "She has begged me to listen to everything you may say against her. Shedeclares that she has a good conscience. " "Ah, " said I, "she's an accomplished woman!" And it is indeed very clever of her to take that tone. Stanmerafterwards assured me explicitly that he has never given her a hint ofthe liberties I have taken in conversation with--what shall I callit?--with her moral nature; she has guessed them for herself. She musthate me intensely, and yet her manner has always been so charming to me!She is truly an accomplished woman! May 4th. --I have stayed away from Casa Salvi for a week, but I havelingered on in Florence, under a mixture of impulses. I have had it onmy conscience not to go near the Countess again--and yet from the momentshe is aware of the way I feel about her, it is open war. There need beno scruples on either side. She is as free to use every possible art toentangle poor Stanmer more closely as I am to clip her fine-spun meshes. Under the circumstances, however, we naturally shouldn't meet verycordially. But as regards her meshes, why, after all, should I clipthem? It would really be very interesting to see Stanmer swallowed up. Ishould like to see how he would agree with her after she had devouredhim--(to what vulgar imagery, by the way, does curiosity reduce a man!)Let him finish the story in his own way, as I finished it in mine. It isthe same story; but why, a quarter of a century later, should it have thesame _denoument_? Let him make his own _denoument_. 5_th_. --Hang it, however, I don't want the poor boy to be miserable. 6_th_. --Ah, but did my _denoument_ then prove such a happy one? 7_th_. --He came to my room late last night; he was much excited. "What was it she did to you?" he asked. I answered him first with another question. "Have you quarrelled withthe Countess?" But he only repeated his own. "What was it she did to you?" "Sit down and I'll tell you. " And he sat there beside the candle, staring at me. "There was a man always there--Count Camerino. " "The man she married?" "The man she married. I was very much in love with her, and yet I didn'ttrust her. I was sure that she lied; I believed that she could be cruel. Nevertheless, at moments, she had a charm which made it pure pedantry tobe conscious of her faults; and while these moments lasted I would havedone anything for her. Unfortunately they didn't last long. But youknow what I mean; am I not describing the Scarabelli?" "The Countess Scarabelli never lied!" cried Stanmer. "That's just what I would have said to any one who should have made theinsinutation! But I suppose you are not asking me the question you putto me just now from dispassionate curiosity. " "A man may want to know!" said the innocent fellow. I couldn't help laughing out. "This, at any rate, is my story. Camerinowas always there; he was a sort of fixture in the house. If I hadmoments of dislike for the divine Bianca, I had no moments of liking forhim. And yet he was a very agreeable fellow, very civil, veryintelligent, not in the least disposed to make a quarrel with me. Thetrouble, of course, was simply that I was jealous of him. I don't know, however, on what ground I could have quarrelled with him, for I had nodefinite rights. I can't say what I expected--I can't say what, as thematter stood, I was prepared to do. With my name and my prospects, Imight perfectly have offered her my hand. I am not sure that she wouldhave accepted it--I am by no means clear that she wanted that. But shewanted, wanted keenly, to attach me to her; she wanted to have me about. I should have been capable of giving up everything--England, my career, my family--simply to devote myself to her, to live near her and see herevery day. " "Why didn't you do it, then?" asked Stanmer. "Why don't you?" "To be a proper rejoinder to my question, " he said, rather neatly, "yoursshould be asked twenty-five years hence. " "It remains perfectly true that at a given moment I was capable of doingas I say. That was what she wanted--a rich, susceptible, credulous, convenient young Englishman established near her _en permanence_. Andyet, " I added, "I must do her complete justice. I honestly believe shewas fond of me. " At this Stanmer got up and walked to the window; hestood looking out a moment, and then he turned round. "You know she wasolder than I, " I went on. "Madame Scarabelli is older than you. One dayin the garden, her mother asked me in an angry tone why I dislikedCamerino; for I had been at no pains to conceal my feeling about him, andsomething had just happened to bring it out. 'I dislike him, ' I said, 'because you like him so much. ' 'I assure you I don't like him, ' sheanswered. 'He has all the appearance of being your lover, ' I retorted. It was a brutal speech, certainly, but any other man in my place wouldhave made it. She took it very strangely; she turned pale, but she wasnot indignant. 'How can he be my lover after what he has done?' sheasked. 'What has he done?' She hesitated a good while, then she said:'He killed my husband. ' 'Good heavens!' I cried, 'and you receive him!'Do you know what she said? She said, '_Che voule_?'" "Is that all?" asked Stanmer. "No; she went on to say that Camerino had killed Count Salvi in a duel, and she admitted that her husband's jealousy had been the occasion of it. The Count, it appeared, was a monster of jealousy--he had led her adreadful life. He himself, meanwhile, had been anything butirreproachable; he had done a mortal injury to a man of whom he pretendedto be a friend, and this affair had become notorious. The gentleman inquestion had demanded satisfaction for his outraged honour; but for somereason or other (the Countess, to do her justice, did not tell me thather husband was a coward), he had not as yet obtained it. The duel withCamerino had come on first; in an access of jealous fury the Count hadstruck Camerino in the face; and this outrage, I know not how justly, wasdeemed expiable before the other. By an extraordinary arrangement (theItalians have certainly no sense of fair play) the other man was allowedto be Camerino's second. The duel was fought with swords, and the Countreceived a wound of which, though at first it was not expected to befatal, he died on the following day. The matter was hushed up as much aspossible for the sake of the Countess's good name, and so successfullythat it was presently observed that, among the public, the othergentleman had the credit of having put his blade through M. De Salvi. This gentleman took a fancy not to contradict the impression, and it wasallowed to subsist. So long as he consented, it was of course inCamerino's interest not to contradict it, as it left him much more freeto keep up his intimacy with the Countess. " Stanmer had listened to all this with extreme attention. "Why didn't_she_ contradict it?" I shrugged my shoulders. "I am bound to believe it was for the samereason. I was horrified, at any rate, by the whole story. I wasextremely shocked at the Countess's want of dignity in continuing to seethe man by whose hand her husband had fallen. " "The husband had been a great brute, and it was not known, " said Stanmer. "Its not being known made no difference. And as for Salvi having been abrute, that is but a way of saying that his wife, and the man whom hiswife subsequently married, didn't like him. " Stanmer hooked extremely meditative; his eyes were fixed on mine. "Yes, that marriage is hard to get over. It was not becoming. " "Ah, " said I, "what a long breath I drew when I heard of it! I rememberthe place and the hour. It was at a hill-station in India, seven yearsafter I had left Florence. The post brought me some English papers, andin one of them was a letter from Italy, with a lot of so-called'fashionable intelligence. ' There, among various scandals in high life, and other delectable items, I read that the Countess Bianca Salvi, famousfor some years as the presiding genius of the most agreeable seen inFlorence, was about to bestow her hand upon Count Camerino, adistinguished Bolognese. Ah, my dear boy, it was a tremendous escape! Ihad been ready to marry the woman who was capable of that! But myinstinct had warned me, and I had trusted my instinct. " "'Instinct's everything, ' as Falstaff says!" And Stanmer began to laugh. "Did you tell Madame de Salvi that your instinct was against her?" "No; I told her that she frightened me, shocked me, horrified me. " "That's about the same thing. And what did she say?" "She asked me what I would have? I called her friendship with Camerino ascandal, and she answered that her husband had been a brute. Besides, noone knew it; therefore it was no scandal. Just _your_ argument! Iretorted that this was odious reasoning, and that she had no moral sense. We had a passionate argument, and I declared I would never see her again. In the heat of my displeasure I left Florence, and I kept my vow. Inever saw her again. " "You couldn't have been much in love with her, " said Stanmer. "I was not--three months after. " "If you had been you would have come back--three days after. " "So doubtless it seems to you. All I can say is that it was the greateffort of my life. Being a military man, I have had on various occasionsto face time enemy. But it was not then I needed my resolution; it waswhen I left Florence in a post-chaise. " Stanmer turned about the room two or three times, and then he said: "Idon't understand! I don't understand why she should have told you thatCamerino had killed her husband. It could only damage her. " "She was afraid it would damage her more that I should think he was herlover. She wished to say the thing that would most effectually persuademe that he was not her lover--that he could never be. And then shewished to get the credit of being very frank. " "Good heavens, how you must have analysed her!" cried my companion, staring. "There is nothing so analytic as disillusionment. But there it is. Shemarried Camerino. " "Yes, I don't lime that, " said Stanmer. He was silent a while, and thenhe added--"Perhaps she wouldn't have done so if you had remained. " He has a little innocent way! "Very likely she would have dispensed withthe ceremony, " I answered, drily. "Upon my word, " he said, "you _have_ analysed her!" "You ought to be grateful to me. I have done for you what you seemunable to do for yourself. " "I don't see any Camerino in my case, " he said. "Perhaps among those gentlemen I can find one for you. " "Thank you, " he cried; "I'll take care of that myself!" And he wentaway--satisfied, I hope. 10th. --He's an obstinate little wretch; it irritates me to see himsticking to it. Perhaps he is looking for his Camerino. I shall leavehim, at any rate, to his fate; it is growing insupportably hot. 11th. --I went this evening to bid farewell to the Scarabelli. There wasno one there; she was alone in her great dusky drawing-room, which waslighted only by a couple of candles, with the immense windows open overthe garden. She was dressed in white; she was deucedly pretty. Sheasked me, of course, why I had been so long without coming. "I think you say that only for form, " I answered. "I imagine you know. " "_Che_! what have I done?" "Nothing at all. You are too wise for that. " She looked at me a while. "I think you are a little crazy. " "Ah no, I am only too sane. I have too much reason rather than toolittle. " "You have, at any rate, what we call a fixed idea. " "There is no harm in that so long as it's a good one. " "But yours is abominable!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. "Of course you can't like me or my ideas. All things considered, youhave treated me with wonderful kindness, and I thank you and kiss yourhands. I leave Florence tomorrow. " "I won't say I'm sorry!" she said, laughing again. "But I am very gladto have seen you. I always wondered about you. You are a curiosity. " "Yes, you must find me so. A man who can resist your charms! The factis, I can't. This evening you are enchanting; and it is the first time Ihave been alone with you. " She gave no heed to this; she turned away. But in a moment she cameback, and stood looking at me, and her beautiful solemn eyes seemed toshine in the dimness of the room. "How _could_ you treat my mother so?" she asked. "Treat her so?" "How could you desert the most charming woman in the world?" "It was not a case of desertion; and if it had been it seems to me shewas consoled. " At this moment there was the sound of a step in the ante-chamber, and Isaw that the Countess perceived it to be Stanmer's. "That wouldn't have happened, " she murmured. "My poor mother needed aprotector. " Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking at me, I thought, with a little air of bravado. He must think me indeed a tiresome, meddlesome bore; and upon my word, turning it all over, I wonder at hisdocility. After all, he's five-and-twenty--and yet I _must_ add, it_does_ irritate me--the way he sticks! He was followed in a moment bytwo or three of the regular Italians, and I made my visit short. "Good-bye, Countess, " I said; and she gave me her hand in silence. "Doyou need a protector?" I added, softly. She looked at me from head to foot, and then, almost angrily--"Yes, Signore. " But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an instant, and then bent myvenerable head and kissed it. I think I appeased her. BOLOGNA, 14th. --I left Florence on the 11th, and have been here thesethree days. Delightful old Italian town--but it lacks the charm of myFlorentine secret. I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night, after coming backfrom Casa Salsi. I afterwards fell asleep in my chair; the night washalf over when I woke up. Instead of going to bed, I stood a long timeat the window, looking out at the river. It was a warm, still night, andthe first faint streaks of sunrise were in the sky. Presently I heard aslow footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made out by the aid ofa street lamp that Stanmer was but just coming home. I called to him tocome to my rooms, and, after an interval, he made his appearance. "I want to bid you good-bye, " I said; "I shall depart in the morning. Don't go to the trouble of saying you are sorry. Of course you are not;I must have bullied you immensely. " He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he said he was very glad tohave made my acquaintance. "Your conversation, " he said, with his little innocent air, "has beenvery suggestive. " "Have you found Camerino?" I asked, smiling. "I have given up the search. " "Well, " I said, "some day when you find that you have made a greatmistake, remember I told you so. " He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by theexercise of his reason. "Has it ever occurred to you that _you_ may have made a great mistake?" "Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later. " That's what I said to him; but I didn't say that the question, pointed byhis candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force thanit had ever had before. And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had beenso especially happy. PARIS, _December_ 17th. --A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw inFlorence--a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing. "My dear General--I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear. Things that involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen from the inside. --Yours ever, E. S. "P. S. --A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my happiness!" His happiness makes him very clever. I hope it will last--I mean hiscleverness, not his happiness. LONDON, _April_ 19th, 1877. --Last night, at Lady H---'s, I met EdmundStanmer, who married Bianca Salvi's daughter. I heard the other day thatthey had come to England. A handsome young fellow, with a freshcontented face. He reminded me of Florence, which I didn't pretend toforget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparagethat woman to him. I had a complete theory about her. But he didn'tseem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter. Iasked him if his wife were there. I had to do that. "Oh yes, she's in one of the other rooms. Come and make heracquaintance; I want you to know her. " "You forget that I do know her. " "Oh no, you don't; you never did. " And he gave a little significantlaugh. I didn't feel like facing the _ci-devant_ Scarabelli at that moment; so Isaid that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honourof calling upon his wife. We talked for a minute of something else, andthen, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on myarm. I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous. "Depend upon it you were wrong!" he said. "My dear young friend, " I answered, "imagine the alacrity with which Iconcede it. " Something else again was spoken of, but in an instant he repeated hismovement. "Depend upon it you were wrong. " "I am sure the Countess has forgiven me, " I said, "and in that case youought to bear no grudge. As I have had the honour to say, I will callupon her immediately. " "I was not alluding to my wife, " he answered. "I was thinking of yourown story. " "My own story?" "So many years ago. Was it not rather a mistake?" I looked at him a moment; he's positively rosy. "That's not a question to solve in a London crush. " And I turned away. 22d. --I haven't yet called on the _ci-devant_; I am afraid of finding herat home. And that boy's words have been thrumming in my ears--"Dependupon it you were wrong. Wasn't it rather a mistake?" _Was_ Iwrong--_was_ it a mistake? Was I too cautions--too suspicious--toological? Was it really a protector she needed--a man who might havehelped her? Would it have been for his benefit to believe in her, andwas her fault only that I had forsaken her? Was the poor woman veryunhappy? God forgive me, how the questions come crowding in! If Imarred her happiness, I certainly didn't make my own. And I might havemade it--eh? That's a charming discovery for a man of my age!