The Diary of a Man of Fifty by Henry James


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Page 1

6th.--I knew it wouldn't last; it's already passing away. But I have
spent a delightful day; I have been strolling all over the place.
Everything reminds me of something else, and yet of itself at the same
time; 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 the
flowers, 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 hour
in the Boboli Gardens; we went there several times together. I remember
all those days individually; they seem to me as yesterday. I found the
corner where she always chose to sit--the bench of sun-warmed marble, in
front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant statue of Pomona just
beside it. The place is exactly the same, except that poor Pomona has
lost one of her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour, and it
was strange how near to me she seemed. The place was perfectly
empty--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 we
make such an ado about death? What is it, after all, but a sort of
refinement of life? She died ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in
the sunny stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence. I went
afterwards into the gallery of the palace, and wandered for an hour from
room to room. The same great pictures hung in the same places, and the
same dark frescoes arched above them. Twice, of old, I went there with
her; she had a great understanding of art. She understood all sorts of
things. Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time. The face
is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded me of her. But
everything does that. We stood and looked at it together once for half
an hour; I remember perfectly what she said.

8th.--Yesterday I felt blue--blue and bored; and when I got up this
morning I had half a mind to leave Florence. But I went out into the
street, beside the Arno, and looked up and down--looked at the yellow
river and the violet hills, and then decided to remain--or rather, I
decided nothing. I simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and
before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour again, and it was too
late to start for Rome. I strolled along the quay, where something
presently happened that rewarded me for staying. I stopped in front of a
little jeweller's shop, where a great many objects in mosaic were exposed
in the window; I stood there for some minutes--I don't know why, for I
have no taste for mosaic. In a moment a little girl came and stood
beside me--a little girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. I
turned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened to fall on her basket. It
was 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 a
name on it I knew. It was very legibly written--evidently by a scribe
who had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. _Contessa
Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina_--so ran the superscription; I looked at
it for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion. Presently the little
girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with a
pair 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 soft
smile--"_E bella_!" said the little girl. She was beautiful herself as
she said it.

"Precisely; and is she fair or dark?"

The child kept gazing at me. "_Bionda--bionda_," she answered, looking
about 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 Signor
Conte."

"And she lives in Via Ghibellina?"

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 29th Mar 2024, 14:34