For you there is left only a still, small book, that meekly submits to
being closed up and laid aside - and then again, as patiently as ever,
resumes its tranquil message, when opened.

II

My parents were Italian aristocrats and my childhood days in the
paternal home in Milan and our country estate near Como loom up vaguely
before me in pictures half memories, half dreams. I cannot clearly
distinguish what is purely memory and what a dream, or dream-memory, of
these olden days. Memory is like tradition; one does not remember the
first impression, but only the memory of it, and who knows how much
that was already distorted; and so the picture changes from year to
year, like a vaguely-told tale.

My childhood days fell towards the middle of the nineteenth century. It
was my time of luxury and state. Our home was a palace with a pillared
courtyard, wide stairway of stone with statuary, and a marble dolphin
spouting water. We had carriages and servants and I wore velvet suits
with wide lace collars and colored silk ties. I remember my father at
the time as a tall, dark, proud man, most fastidiously groomed and
dressed. He had shiny black whiskers and long, thick, wavy and glossy
hair that fell over his forehead with an artful curl. He wore tight
trousers with gaiters and patent leather shoes that always creaked
softly. He had a calm but very decided manner, and impressed me
immensely by his gentle way of giving orders and the confidence with
which he could make himself obeyed. Only my mother resisted him with a
power equally unshakable and equally restrained. As a child I saw this
conflict daily and, without appearing to do so or being myself quite
conscious of it, gave it much thought.