the diary of a man of fifty-第1部分

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The　Diary　of　a　Man　of　Fifty



by　Henry　James









Florence；　April　5th；　1874。They　told　me　I　should　find　Italy　greatly　

changed；　and　in　seven…and…twenty　years　there　is　room　for　changes。　　

But　to　me　everything　is　so　perfectly　the　same　that　I　seem　to　be　

living　my　youth　over　again；　all　the　forgotten　impressions　of　that　

enchanting　time　come　back　to　me。　　At　the　moment　they　were　powerful　

enough；　but　they　afterwards　faded　away。　　What　in　the　world　became　of　

them？　　Whatever　becomes　of　such　things；　in　the　long　intervals　of　

consciousness？　　Where　do　they　hide　themselves　away？　in　what　unvisited　

cupboards　and　crannies　of　our　being　do　they　preserve　themselves？　　

They　are　like　the　lines　of　a　letter　written　in　sympathetic　ink；　hold　

the　letter　to　the　fire　for　a　while　and　the　grateful　warmth　brings　out　

the　invisible　words。　　It　is　the　warmth　of　this　yellow　sun　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。　　There　have　

been　moments　during　the　last　ten　years　when　I　have　fell　so　

portentously　old；　so　fagged　and　finished；　that　I　should　have　taken　as　

a　very　bad　joke　any　intimation　that　this　present　sense　of　juvenility　

was　still　in　store　for　me。　　It　won't　last；　at　any　rate；　so　I　had　

better　make　the　best　of　it。　　But　I　confess　it　surprises　me。　　I　have　

led　too　serious　a　life；　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　brutal　climates　and　associated　with　tiresome　

people。　　When　a　man　has　reached　his　fifty…second　year　without　being；　

materially；　the　worse　for　wearwhen　he　has　fair　health；　a　fair　

fortune；　a　tidy　conscience　and　a　complete　exemption　from　embarrassing　

relativesI　suppose　he　is　bound；　in　delicacy；　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　thator　at　least　as　to　write　

it。　　But　happinesspositive　happinesswould　have　been　something　

different。　　I　don't　know　that　it　would　have　been　better；　by　all　

measurementsthat　it　would　have　left　me　better　off　at　the　present　

time。　　But　it　certainly　would　have　made　this　differencethat　I　

should　not　have　been　reduced；　in　pursuit　of　pleasant　images；　to　

disinter　a　buried　episode　of　more　than　a　quarter　of　a　century　ago。　　I　

should　have　found　entertainment　morewhat　shall　I　call　it？more　

contemporaneous。　　I　should　have　had　a　wife　and　children；　and　I　should　

not　be　in　the　way　of　making；　as　the　French　say；　infidelities　to　the　

present。　　Of　course　it's　a　great　gain　to　have　had　an　escape；　not　to　

have　committed　an　act　of　thumping　folly；　and　I　suppose　that；　whatever　

serious　step　one　might　have　taken　at　twenty…five；　after　a　struggle；　

and　with　a　violent　effort；　and　however　one's　conduct　might　appear　to　

be　justified　by　events；　there　would　always　remain　a　certain　element　

of　regret；　a　certain　sense　of　loss　lurking　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　very　cheerful　and　comfortable；　but　

there　are　nevertheless　two　or　three　questions　I　might　ask　myself。　　

Why；　for　instance；　have　I　never　marriedwhy　have　I　never　been　able　

to　care　for　any　woman　as　I　cared　for　that　one？　　Ah；　why　are　the　

mountains　blue　and　why　is　the　sunshine　warm？　　Happiness　mitigated　by　

impertinent　conjecturesthat's　about　my　ticket。



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　emptythat　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　blueblue　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　downlooked　at　the　yellow　

river　and　the　violet　hills；　and　then　decided　to　remainor　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　minutesI　

don't　know　why；　for　I　have　no　taste　for　mosaic。　　In　a　moment　a　little　

girl　came　and　stood　beside　mea　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　glancethere　was　a　name　on　it　I　knew。　　It　was　

very　legibly　writtenevidently　by　a　scribe　who　had　made　up　in　zeal　

what　was　lacking　in　skill。　　Contessa　Salvi…Scarabelli；　Via　

Ghibellinaso　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。　　〃Biondabionda；〃　she　answered；　looking　

about　into　the　golden　sunshine　for　a　comparison。



〃And　is　she　young？〃



〃She　is　not　younglike　me。　　But　she　is　not　old　likelike〃



〃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？〃



〃Sicuro。　　In　a　beautiful　palace。〃



I　had　one　more　question　to　ask；　and　I　pointed　it　with　certain　copper　

coins。　　〃Tell　me　a　littleis　she　good？〃



The　child　inspected　a　moment　the　contents　of　her　little　brown　fist。　　

〃It's　you　who　are　good；〃　she　answered。



〃Ah；　but　the　Countess？〃　I　repeated。



My　informant　lowered　her　big　brown　eyes；　with　an　air　of　conscientious　

meditation　that　was　inexpressibly　quaint。　　〃To　me　she　appears　so；〃　

she　said　at　last；　looking　up。



〃Ah；　then；　she　must　be　so；〃　I　said；　〃because；　for　your　age；　you　are　

very　intelligent。〃　　And　having　delivered　myself　of　this　compliment　I　

walked　away　and　left　the　little　girl　counting　her　soldi。



I　walked　back　to　the　hotel；　wondering　how　I　could　learn　something　

about　the　Contessa　Salvi…Scarabelli。　　In　the　doorway　I　found　the　

innkeeper；　and　near　him　stood　a　young　man　whom　I　immediately　

perceived　to　be　a　compatriot；　and　with　whom；　apparently；　he　had　been　

in　conversation。



〃I　wonder　whether　you　can　give　me　a　piece　of　information；〃　I　said　to　

the　landlord。　　〃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　young　

Englishman；　who　looked　at　me　with　a　good　deal　of　earnestness。　　He　was　

apparently　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　

widow　lives；〃　I　observed；　〃in　Via　Ghibellina？〃



〃I　daresay　that　is　the　name　of　the　street。〃　　He　was　a　handsome　young　

Englishman；　but　he　was　also　an　awkward　one；　he　wondered　who　I　was　and　

what　I　wanted；　and　he　did　me　the　honour　to　perceive　that；　as　regards　

these　points；　my　appearance　was　reassuring。　　But　he　hesitated；　very　

properly；　to　talk　with　a　perfect　stranger　about　a　lady　whom　he　knew；　

and　he　had　not　the　art　to　conceal　his　hesitation。　　I　instantly　felt　

it　to　be　sing