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CHAPTER V
I was seldom at home in the evening, for when I attempted to
occupy myself in my apartments the lamplight brought in a swarm
of noxious insects, and it was too hot for closed windows.
Accordingly I spent the late hours either on the water
(the moonlight of Venice is famous), or in the splendid square
which serves as a vast forecourt to the strange old basilica
of Saint Mark. I sat in front of Florian's cafe, eating ices,
listening to music, talking with acquaintances: the traveler
will remember how the immense cluster of tables and little chairs
stretches like a promontory into the smooth lake of the Piazza.
The whole place, of a summer's evening, under the stars and with
all the lamps, all the voices and light footsteps on marble
(the only sounds of the arcades that enclose it), is like an open-air
saloon dedicated to cooling drinks and to a still finer degustation--
that of the exquisite impressions received during the day.
When I did not prefer to keep mine to myself there was always
a stray tourist, disencumbered of his Baedeker, to discuss them with,
or some domesticated painter rejoicing in the return of the season
of strong effects. The wonderful church, with its low domes and
bristling embroideries, the mystery of its mosaic and sculpture,
looking ghostly in the tempered gloom, and the sea breeze passed
between the twin columns of the Piazzetta, the lintels of a door no
longer guarded, as gently as if a rich curtain were swaying there.
I used sometimes on these occasions to think of the Misses Bordereau
and of the pity of their being shut up in apartments which in the Venetian
July even Venetian vastness did not prevent from being stuffy.
Their life seemed miles away from the life of the Piazza, and no doubt
it was really too late to make the austere Juliana change her habits.
But poor Miss Tita would have enjoyed one of Florian's ices, I was sure;
sometimes I even had thoughts of carrying one home to her.
Fortunately my patience bore fruit, and I was not obliged to do
anything so ridiculous.
One evening about the middle of July I came in earlier than usual--
I forget what chance had led to this--and instead of going up to my
quarters made my way into the garden. The temperature was very high;
it was such a night as one would gladly have spent in the open air,
and I was in no hurry to go to bed. I had floated home in my gondola,
listening to the slow splash of the oar in the narrow dark canals,
and now the only thought that solicited me was the vague reflection
that it would be pleasant to recline at one's length in the fragrant
darkness on a garden bench. The odor of the canal was doubtless
at the bottom of that aspiration and the breath of the garden,
as I entered it, gave consistency to my purpose. it was delicious--
just such an air as must have trembled with Romeo's vows when he stood
among the flowers and raised his arms to his mistress's balcony.
I looked at the windows of the palace to see if by chance
the example of Verona (Verona being not far off) had been followed;
but everything was dim, as usual, and everything was still.
Juliana, on summer nights in her youth, might have murmured down
from open windows at Jeffrey Aspern, but Miss Tita was not a poet's
mistress any more than I was a poet. This however did not prevent
my gratification from being great as I became aware on reaching
the end of the garden that Miss Tita was seated in my little bower.
At first I only made out an indistinct figure, not in the least
counting on such an overture from one of my hostesses;
it even occurred to me that some sentimental maidservant had stolen
in to keep a tryst with her sweetheart. I was going to turn away,
not to frighten her, when the figure rose to its height and I
recognized Miss Bordereau's niece. I must do myself the justice to say
that I did not wish to frighten her either, and much as I had longed
for some such accident I should have been capable of retreating.
It was as if I had laid a trap for her by coming home earlier than
usual and adding to that eccentricity by creeping into the garden.
As she rose she spoke to me, and then I reflected that perhaps,
secure in my almost inveterate absence, it was her nightly practice
to take a lonely airing. There was no trap, in truth, because I
had had no suspicion. At first I took for granted that the words
she uttered expressed discomfiture at my arrival; but as she
repeated them--I had not caught them clearly--I had the surprise
of hearing her say, "Oh, dear, I'm so very glad you've come!"
She and her aunt had in common the property of unexpected speeches.
She came out of the arbor almost as if she were going to throw
herself into my arms.
I hasten to add that she did nothing of the kind; she did not even
shake hands with me. It was a gratification to her to see me
and presently she told me why--because she was nervous when she
was out-of-doors at night alone. The plants and bushes looked
so strange in the dark, and there were all sorts of queer sounds--
she could not tell what they were--like the noises of animals.
She stood close to me, looking about her with an air of greater security
but without any demonstration of interest in me as an individual.
Then I guessed that nocturnal prowlings were not in the least her habit,
and I was also reminded (I had been struck with the circumstance
in talking with her before I took possession) that it was impossible
to overestimate her simplicity.
"You speak as if you were lost in the backwoods," I said, laughing.
"How you manage to keep out of this charming place when you have only three
steps to take to get into it is more than I have yet been able to discover.
You hide away mighty well so long as I am on the premises, I know;
but I had a hope that you peeped out a little at other times.
You and your poor aunt are worse off than Carmelite nuns in their cells.
Should you mind telling me how you exist without air, without exercise,
without any sort of human contact? I don't see how you carry on the common
business of life."
She looked at me as if I were talking some strange tongue, and her
answer was so little of an answer that I was considerably irritated.
"We go to bed very early--earlier than you would believe."
I was on the point of saying that this only deepened the mystery when she
gave me some relief by adding, "Before you came we were not so private.
But I never have been out at night."
"Never in these fragrant alleys, blooming here under your nose?"
"Ah," said Miss Tita, "they were never nice till now!" There was
an unmistakable reference in this and a flattering comparison,
so that it seemed to me I had gained a small advantage.
As it would help me to follow it up to establish a sort of
grievance I asked her why, since she thought my garden nice,
she had never thanked me in any way for the flowers I had been
sending up in such quantities for the previous three weeks.
I had not been discouraged--there had been, as she would
have observed, a daily armful; but I had been brought up
in the common forms and a word of recognition now and then
would have touched me in the right place.
"Why I didn't know they were for me!"
"They were for both of you. Why should I make a difference?"
Miss Tita reflected as if she might by thinking of a reason for that,
but she failed to produce one. Instead of this she asked abruptly,
"Why in the world do you want to know us?"
"I ought after all to make a difference," I replied.
"That question is your aunt's; it isn't yours. You wouldn't
ask it if you hadn't been put up to it."
"She didn't tell me to ask you," Miss Tita replied without confusion;
she was the oddest mixture of the shrinking and the direct.
"Well, she has often wondered about it herself and expressed
her wonder to you. She has insisted on it, so that she has
put the idea into your head that I am insufferably pushing.
Upon my word I think I have been very discreet.
And how completely your aunt must have lost every tradition
of sociability, to see anything out of the way in the idea
that respectable intelligent people, living as we do under
the same roof, should occasionally exchange a remark!
What could be more natural? We are of the same country,
and we have at least some of the same tastes, since, like you,
I am intensely fond of Venice."
My interlocutress appeared incapable of grasping more than one clause
in any proposition, and she declared quickly, eagerly, as if she were
answering my whole speech: "I am not in the least fond of Venice.
I should like to go far away!"
"Has she always kept you back so?" I went on, to show her that I
could be as irrelevant as herself.
"She told me to come out tonight; she has told me very often,"
said Miss Tita. "It is I who wouldn't come. I don't like
to leave her."
"Is she too weak, is she failing?" I demanded, with more emotion,
I think, than I intended to show. I judged this by the way
her eyes rested upon me in the darkness. It embarrassed me
a little, and to turn the matter off I continued genially:
"Do let us sit down together comfortably somewhere, and you
will tell me all about her."
Miss Tita made no resistance to this. We found a bench
less secluded, less confidential, as it were, than the one
in the arbor; and we were still sitting there when I heard
midnight ring out from those clear bells of Venice which
vibrate with a solemnity of their own over the lagoon and hold
the air so much more than the chimes of other places.
We were together more than an hour, and our interview gave,
as it struck me, a great lift to my undertaking.
Miss Tita accepted the situation without a protest;
she had avoided me for three months, yet now she treated me
almost as if these three months had made me an old friend.
If I had chosen I might have inferred from this that though
she had avoided me she had given a good deal of consideration
to doing so. She paid no attention to the flight of time--
never worried at my keeping her so long away from her aunt.
She talked freely, answering questions and asking them and not
even taking advantage of certain longish pauses with which they
inevitably alternated to say she thought she had better go in.
It was almost as if she were waiting for something--something I
might say to her--and intended to give me my opportunity.
I was the more struck by this as she told me that her aunt
had been less well for a good many days and in a way that was
rather new. She was weaker; at moments it seemed as if she
had no strength at all; yet more than ever before she wished
to be left alone. That was why she had told her to come out--
not even to remain in her own room, which was alongside;
she said her niece irritated her, made her nervous.
She sat still for hours together, as if she were asleep;
she had always done that, musing and dozing; but at such times
formerly she gave at intervals some small sign of life,
of interest, liking her companion to be near her with her work.
Miss Tita confided to me that at present her aunt was so
motionless that she sometimes feared she was dead; moreover she
took hardly any food--one couldn't see what she lived on.
The great thing was that she still on most days got up;
the serious job was to dress her, to wheel her out of her bedroom.
She clung to as many of her old habits as possible and she
had always, little company as they had received for years,
made a point of sitting in the parlor.
I scarcely knew what to think of all this--of Miss Tita's
sudden conversion to sociability and of the strange
circumstance that the more the old lady appeared to decline
toward her end the less she should desire to be looked after.
The story did not hang together, and I even asked myself whether
it were not a trap laid for me, the result of a design to make
me show my hand. I could not have told why my companions
(as they could only by courtesy be called) should have this purpose--
why they should try to trip up so lucrative a lodger.
At any rate I kept on my guard, so that Miss Tita should not
have occasion again to ask me if I had an arriere-pensee.
Poor woman, before we parted for the night my mind was at rest
as to HER capacity for entertaining one.
She told me more about their affairs than I had hoped;
there was no need to be prying, for it evidently drew
her out simply to feel that I listened, that I cared.
She ceased wondering why I cared, and at last, as she spoke of
the brilliant life they had led years before, she almost chattered.
It was Miss Tita who judged it brilliant; she said that when they
first came to live in Venice, years and years before (I saw
that her mind was essentially vague about dates and the order
in which events had occurred), there was scarcely a week
that they had not some visitor or did not make some delightful
passeggio in the city. They had seen all the curiosities;
they had even been to the Lido in a boat (she spoke as if I might
think there was a way on foot); they had had a collation there,
brought in three baskets and spread out on the grass.
I asked her what people they had known and she said, Oh! very
nice ones--the Cavaliere Bombicci and the Contessa Altemura,
with whom they had had a great friendship. Also English people--
the Churtons and the Goldies and Mrs. Stock-Stock, whom
they had loved dearly; she was dead and gone, poor dear.
That was the case with most of their pleasant circle
(this expression was Miss Tita's own), though a few were left,
which was a wonder considering how they had neglected them.
She mentioned the names of two or three Venetian old women; of a
certain doctor, very clever, who was so kind--he came as a friend,
he had really given up practice; of the avvocato Pochintesta,
who wrote beautiful poems and had addressed one to her aunt.
These people came to see them without fail every year,
usually at the capo d'anno, and of old her aunt used
to make them some little present--her aunt and she together:
small things that she, Miss Tita, made herself, like paper
lampshades or mats for the decanters of wine at dinner or those
woolen things that in cold weather were worn on the wrists.
The last few years there had not been many presents;
she could not think what to make, and her aunt had lost her
interest and never suggested. But the people came all the same;
if the Venetians liked you once they liked you forever.
There was something affecting in the good faith of this
sketch of former social glories; the picnic at the Lido had
remained vivid through the ages, and poor Miss Tita evidently
was of the impression that she had had a brilliant youth.
She had in fact had a glimpse of the Venetian world in
its gossiping, home-keeping, parsimonious, professional walks;
for I observed for the first time that she had acquired
by contact something of the trick of the familiar,
soft-sounding, almost infantile speech of the place.
I judged that she had imbibed this invertebrate dialect
from the natural way the names of things and people--
mostly purely local--rose to her lips. If she knew little
of what they represented she knew still less of anything else.
Her aunt had drawn in--her failing interest in the table mats
and lampshades was a sign of that--and she had not been able
to mingle in society or to entertain it alone; so that the matter
of her reminiscences struck one as an old world altogether.
If she had not been so decent her references would have seemed
to carry one back to the queer rococo Venice of Casanova.
I found myself falling into the error of thinking of her too
as one of Jeffrey Aspern's contemporaries; this came from her
having so little in common with my own. It was possible,
I said to myself, that she had not even heard of him;
it might very well be that Juliana had not cared to lift even
for her the veil that covered the temple of her youth. In this
case she perhaps would not know of the existence of the papers,
and I welcomed that presumption--it made me feel more safe with her--
until I remembered that we had believed the letter of disavowal
received by Cumnor to be in the handwriting of the niece.
If it had been dictated to her she had of course to know what it
was about; yet after all the effect of it was to repudiate
the idea of any connection with the poet. I held it probable
at all events that Miss Tita had not read a word of his poetry.
Moreover if, with her companion, she had always escaped
the interviewer there was little occasion for her having
got it into her head that people were "after" the letters.
People had not been after them, inasmuch as they had not
heard of them; and Cumnor's fruitless feeler would have been
a solitary accident.
When midnight sounded Miss Tita got up; but she stopped at the door
of the house only after she had wandered two or three times
with me round the garden. "When shall I see you again?"
I asked before she went in; to which she replied with
promptness that she should like to come out the next night.
She added however that she should not come--she was so far
from doing everything she liked.
"You might do a few things that _I_ like," I said with a sigh.
"Oh, you--I don't believe you!" she murmured at this, looking at me
with her simple solemnity.
"Why don't you believe me?"
"Because I don't understand you."
"That is just the sort of occasion to have faith."
I could not say more, though I should have liked to, as I saw
that I only mystified her; for I had no wish to have it on my
conscience that I might pass for having made love to her.
Nothing less should I have seemed to do had I continued to beg a lady
to "believe in me" in an Italian garden on a midsummer night.
There was some merit in my scruples, for Miss Tita lingered and lingered:
I perceived that she felt that she should not really soon come
down again and wished therefore to protract the present.
She insisted too on making the talk between us personal to ourselves;
and altogether her behavior was such as would have been possible
only to a completely innocent woman.
"I shall like the flowers better now that I know they are also meant for me."
"How could you have doubted it? If you will tell me the kind you
like best I will send a double lot of them."
"Oh, I like them all best!" Then she went on, familiarly: "Shall you study--
shall you read and write--when you go up to your rooms?"
"I don't do that at night, at this season. The lamplight brings
in the animals."
"You might have known that when you came."
"I did know it!"
"And in winter do you work at night?"
"I read a good deal, but I don't often write."
She listened as if these details had a rare interest,
and suddenly a temptation quite at variance with the prudence
I had been teaching myself associated itself with her plain,
mild face. Ah yes, she was safe and I could make her safer!
It seemed to me from one moment to another that I could
not wait longer--that I really must take a sounding.
So I went on: "In general before I go to sleep--very often in bed
(it's a bad habit, but I confess to it), I read some great poet.
In nine cases out of ten it's a volume of Jeffrey Aspern."
I watched her well as I pronounced that name but I saw nothing wonderful.
Why should I indeed--was not Jeffrey Aspern the property of the human race?
"Oh, we read him--we HAVE read him," she quietly replied.
"He is my poet of poets--I know him almost by heart."
For an instant Miss Tita hesitated; then her sociability was
too much for her.
"Oh, by heart--that's nothing!" she murmured, smiling. "My aunt used
to know him--to know him"--she paused an instant and I wondered what she
was going to say--"to know him as a visitor."
"As a visitor?" I repeated, staring.
"He used to call on her and take her out."
I continued to stare. "My dear lady, he died a hundred years ago!"
"Well," she said mirthfully, "my aunt is a hundred and fifty."
"Mercy on us!" I exclaimed; "why didn't you tell me before?
I should like so to ask her about him."
"She wouldn't care for that--she wouldn't tell you,"
Miss Tita replied.
"I don't care what she cares for! She MUST tell me--
it's not a chance to be lost."
"Oh, you should have come twenty years ago: then she still
talked about him."
"And what did she say?" I asked eagerly.
"I don't know--that he liked her immensely."
"And she--didn't she like him?"
"She said he was a god." Miss Tita gave me this information flatly,
without expression; her tone might have made it a piece of trivial gossip.
But it stirred me deeply as she dropped the words into the summer night;
it seemed such a direct testimony.
"Fancy, fancy!" I murmured. And then, "Tell me this, please--has she
got a portrait of him? They are distressingly rare."
"A portrait? I don't know," said Miss Tita; and now there
was discomfiture in her face. "Well, good night!" she added;
and she turned into the house.
I accompanied her into the wide, dusky, stone-paved passage
which on the ground floor corresponded with our grand sala.
It opened at one end into the garden, at the other upon the canal,
and was lighted now only by the small lamp that was always
left for me to take up as I went to bed. An extinguished
candle which Miss Tita apparently had brought down with her
stood on the same table with it. "Good night, good night!"
I replied, keeping beside her as she went to get her light.
"Surely you would know, shouldn't you, if she had one?"
"If she had what?" the poor lady asked, looking at me queerly
over the flame of her candle.
"A portrait of the god. I don't know what I wouldn't give to see it."
"I don't know what she has got. She keeps her things locked up."
And Miss Tita went away, toward the staircase, with the sense
evidently that she had said too much.
I let her go--I wished not to frighten her--and I contented
myself with remarking that Miss Bordereau would not have locked
up such a glorious possession as that--a thing a person would
be proud of and hang up in a prominent place on the parlor wall.
Therefore of course she had not any portrait.
Miss Tita made no direct answer to this and, candle in hand,
with her back to me, ascended two or three stairs.
Then she stopped short and turned round, looking at me across
the dusky space.
"Do you write--do you write?" There was a shake in her voice--
she could scarcely bring out what she wanted to ask.
"Do I write? Oh, don't speak of my writing on the same day with Aspern's!"
"Do you write about HIM--do you pry into his life?"
"Ah, that's your aunt's question; it can't be yours!"
I said, in a tone of slightly wounded sensibility.
"All the more reason then that you should answer it.
Do you, please?"
I thought I had allowed for the falsehoods I should have to tell;
but I found that in fact when it came to the point I had not.
Besides, now that I had an opening there was a kind of relief
in being frank. Lastly (it was perhaps fanciful, even fatuous),
I guessed that Miss Tita personally would not in the last resort
be less my friend. So after a moment's hesitation I answered,
"Yes, I have written about him and I am looking for more material.
In heaven's name have you got any?"
"Santo Dio!" she exclaimed, without heeding my question;
and she hurried upstairs and out of sight. I might count
upon her in the last resort, but for the present she
was visibly alarmed. The proof of it was that she began
to hide again, so that for a fortnight I never beheld her.
I found my patience ebbing and after four or five days of this
I told the gardener to stop the flowers.
Content of CHAPTER V [Henry James' novel: The Aspern Papers]
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