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. I meant to go tonight to Casa Salvi, but I couldn't
bring myself to the point. I don't know what I'm afraid of; I used to be
in a hurry enough to go there once. I suppose I am afraid of the very
look of the place--of the old rooms, the old walls. I shall go tomorrow
night. I am afraid of the very echoes.
10th.--She has the most extraordinary resemblance to her mother. When I
went in I was tremendously startled; I stood starting at her. I have
just come home; it is past midnight; I have been all the evening at Casa
Salvi. It is very warm--my window is open--I can look out on the river
gliding past in the starlight. So, of old, when I came home, I used to
stand and look out. There are the same cypresses on the opposite hills.
Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four other admirers; they all
got up when I came in. I think I had been talked about, and there was
some curiosity. But why should I have been talked about? They were all
youngish men--none of them of my time. She is a wonderful likeness of
her mother; I couldn't get over it. Beautiful like her mother, and yet
with the same faults in her face; but with her mother's perfect head and
brow and sympathetic, almost pitying, eyes. Her face has just that
peculiarity of her mother's, which, of all human countenances that I have
ever known, was the one that passed most quickly and completely from the
expression of gaiety to that of repose. Repose in her face always
suggested sadness; and while you were watching it with a kind of awe, and
wondering of what tragic secret it was the token, it kindled, on the
instant, into a radiant Italian smile. The Countess Scarabelli's smiles
tonight, however, were almost uninterrupted. She greeted me--divinely,
as her mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of the
sofa--as I used to do--and watched her while she talked. She is thin and
very fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that completes the
resemblance. The house, the rooms, are almost absolutely the same; there
may be changes of detail, but they don't modify the general effect. There
are the same precious pictures on the walls of the salon--the same great
dusky fresco in the concave ceiling. The daughter is not rich, I
suppose, any more than the mother. The furniture is worn and faded, and
I was admitted by a solitary servant, who carried a twinkling taper
before 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 had
forgotten me."
"She never forgot," said the Countess, looking at me intently and
smiling. "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. "I
have always been very curious to see you. I have received an impression
of you."
"A good one, I hope."
She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this: it was just her
mother'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 to
and fro. "So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel. You don't
mind 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 see
for yourself."
"That speech," I said, "completes the resemblance. She was always
pretending she was not clever, and in reality--"
"In reality she was an angel, eh? To escape from dangerous comparisons I
will admit, then, that I am clever. That will make a difference. But
let 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 all
Englishmen eccentric? All except that one!" and the Countess pointed to
poor 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 saying
that 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 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."