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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