“Our house is very far from the center, but the little canal is very
comme il faut.”
“It’s the sweetest corner of Venice and I can imagine nothing more
charming,” I hastened to reply. The old lady’s voice was very thin and
weak, but it had an agreeable, cultivated murmur, and there was wonder
in the thought that that individual note had been in Jeffrey Aspern’s
ear.
“Please to sit down there. I hear very well,” she said quietly, as if
perhaps I had been shouting at her; and the chair she pointed to was
at a certain distance. I took possession of it, telling her that I
was perfectly aware that I had intruded, that I had not been properly
introduced and could only throw myself upon her indulgence. Perhaps the
other lady, the one I had had the honor of seeing the day before, would
have explained to her about the garden. That was literally what had
given me courage to take a step so unconventional. I had fallen in love
at sight with the whole place (she herself probably was so used to
it that she did not know the impression it was capable of making on a
stranger), and I had felt it was really a case to risk something. Was
her own kindness in receiving me a sign that I was not wholly out in
my calculation? It would render me extremely happy to think so. I could
give her my word of honor that I was a most respectable, inoffensive
person and that as an inmate they would be barely conscious of my
existence. I would conform to any regulations, any restrictions if they
would only let me enjoy the garden. Moreover I should be delighted to
give her references, guarantees; they would be of the very best, both in
Venice and in England as well as in America.
She listened to me in perfect stillness and I felt that she was looking
at me with great attention, though I could see only the lower part of
her bleached and shriveled face. Independently of the refining process
of old age it had a delicacy which once must have been great. She had
been very fair, she had had a wonderful complexion. She was silent a
little after I had ceased speaking; then she inquired, “If you are so
fond of a garden why don’t you go to terra firma, where there are so
many far better than this?”
“Oh, it’s the combination!” I answered, smiling; and then, with rather a
flight of fancy, “It’s the idea of a garden in the middle of the sea.”
“It’s not in the middle of the sea; you can’t see the water.”
I stared a moment, wondering whether she wished to convict me of fraud.
“Can’t see the water? Why, dear madam, I can come up to the very gate in
my boat.”
She appeared inconsequent, for she said vaguely in reply to this, “Yes,
if you have got a boat. I haven’t any; it’s many years since I have been
in one of the gondolas.” She uttered these words as if the gondolas were
a curious faraway craft which she knew only by hearsay.
“Let me assure you of the pleasure with which I would put mine at your
service!” I exclaimed. I had scarcely said this, however, before I
became aware that the speech was in questionable taste and might also do
me the injury of making me appear too eager, too possessed of a hidden
motive. But the old woman remained impenetrable and her attitude
bothered me by suggesting that she had a fuller vision of me than I
had of her. She gave me no thanks for my somewhat extravagant offer
but remarked that the lady I had seen the day before was her niece;
she would presently come in. She had asked her to stay away a little
on purpose, because she herself wished to see me at first alone. She
relapsed into silence, and I asked myself why she had judged this
necessary and what was coming yet; also whether I might venture on some
judicious remark in praise of her companion. I went so far as to say
that I should be delighted to see her again: she had been so very
courteous to me, considering how odd she must have thought me--a
declaration which drew from Miss Bordereau another of her whimsical
speeches.
“She has very good manners; I bred her up myself!” I was on the point
of saying that that accounted for the easy grace of the niece, but I
arrested myself in time, and the next moment the old woman went on:
“I don’t care who you may be--I don’t want to know; it signifies very
little today.” This had all the air of being a formula of dismissal, as
if her next words would be that I might take myself off now that she
had had the amusement of looking on the face of such a monster of
indiscretion. Therefore I was all the more surprised when she added,
with her soft, venerable quaver, “You may have as many rooms as you
like--if you will pay a good deal of money.”
I hesitated but for a single instant, long enough to ask myself what she
meant in particular by this condition. First it struck me that she must
have really a large sum in her mind; then I reasoned quickly that
her idea of a large sum would probably not correspond to my own. My
deliberation, I think, was not so visible as to diminish the promptitude
with which I replied, “I will pay with pleasure and of course in advance
whatever you may think is proper to ask me.”
“Well then, a thousand francs a month,” she rejoined instantly, while
her baffling green shade continued to cover her attitude.
The figure, as they say, was startling and my logic had been at fault.
The sum she had mentioned was, by the Venetian measure of such matters,
exceedingly large; there was many an old palace in an out-of-the-way
corner that I might on such terms have enjoyed by the year. But so far
as my small means allowed I was prepared to spend money, and my decision
was quickly taken. I would pay her with a smiling face what she asked,
but in that case I would give myself the compensation of extracting the
papers from her for nothing. Moreover if she had asked five times
as much I should have risen to the occasion; so odious would it have
appeared to me to stand chaffering with Aspern’s Juliana. It was queer
enough to have a question of money with her at all. I assured her that
her views perfectly met my own and that on the morrow I should have the
pleasure of putting three months’ rent into her hand. She received this
announcement with serenity and with no apparent sense that after all
it would be becoming of her to say that I ought to see the rooms first.
This did not occur to her and indeed her serenity was mainly what I
wanted. Our little bargain was just concluded when the door opened and
the younger lady appeared on the threshold. As soon as Miss Bordereau
saw her niece she cried out almost gaily, “He will give three
thousand--three thousand tomorrow!”
Miss Tita stood still, with her patient eyes turning from one of us to
the other; then she inquired, scarcely above her breath, “Do you mean
francs?”
“Did you mean francs or dollars?” the old woman asked of me at this.
“I think francs were what you said,” I answered, smiling.
“That is very good,” said Miss Tita, as if she had become conscious that
her own question might have looked overreaching.
“What do YOU know? You are ignorant,” Miss Bordereau remarked; not with
acerbity but with a strange, soft coldness.
“Yes, of money--certainly of money!” Miss Tita hastened to exclaim.
“I am sure you have your own branches of knowledge,” I took the liberty
of saying, genially. There was something painful to me, somehow, in the
turn the conversation had taken, in the discussion of the rent.
“She had a very good education when she was young. I looked into that
myself,” said Miss Bordereau. Then she added, “But she has learned
nothing since.”
“I have always been with you,” Miss Tita rejoined very mildly, and
evidently with no intention of making an epigram.
“Yes, but for that!” her aunt declared with more satirical force. She
evidently meant that but for this her niece would never have got on
at all; the point of the observation however being lost on Miss Tita,
though she blushed at hearing her history revealed to a stranger. Miss
Bordereau went on, addressing herself to me: “And what time will you
come tomorrow with the money?”
“The sooner the better. If it suits you I will come at noon.”
“I am always here but I have my hours,” said the old woman, as if her
convenience were not to be taken for granted.
“You mean the times when you receive?”
“I never receive. But I will see you at noon, when you come with the
money.”
“Very good, I shall be punctual;” and I added, “May I shake hands with
you, on our contract?” I thought there ought to be some little form, it
would make me really feel easier, for I foresaw that there would be
no other. Besides, though Miss Bordereau could not today be called
personally attractive and there was something even in her wasted
antiquity that bade one stand at one’s distance, I felt an irresistible
desire to hold in my own for a moment the hand that Jeffrey Aspern had
pressed.
For a minute she made no answer, and I saw that my proposal failed to
meet with her approbation. She indulged in no movement of withdrawal,
which I half-expected; she only said coldly, “I belong to a time when
that was not the custom.”
I felt rather snubbed but I exclaimed good humoredly to Miss Tita, “Oh,
you will do as well!” I shook hands with her while she replied, with a
small flutter, “Yes, yes, to show it’s all arranged!”
“Shall you bring the money in gold?” Miss Bordereau demanded, as I was
turning to the door.
I looked at her for a moment. “Aren’t you a little afraid, after all, of
keeping such a sum as that in the house?” It was not that I was annoyed
at her avidity but I was really struck with the disparity between such a
treasure and such scanty means of guarding it.
“Whom should I be afraid of if I am not afraid of you?” she asked with
her shrunken grimness.
“Ah well,” said I, laughing, “I shall be in point of fact a protector
and I will bring gold if you prefer.”
“Thank you,” the old woman returned with dignity and with an inclination
of her head which evidently signified that I might depart. I passed out
of the room, reflecting that it would not be easy to circumvent her. As
I stood in the sala again I saw that Miss Tita had followed me, and I
supposed that as her aunt had neglected to suggest that I should take a
look at my quarters it was her purpose to repair the omission. But she
made no such suggestion; she only stood there with a dim, though not a
languid smile, and with an effect of irresponsible, incompetent youth
which was almost comically at variance with the faded facts of her
person. She was not infirm, like her aunt, but she struck me as still
more helpless, because her inefficiency was spiritual, which was not the
case with Miss Bordereau’s. I waited to see if she would offer to
show me the rest of the house, but I did not precipitate the question,
inasmuch as my plan was from this moment to spend as much of my time as
possible in her society. I only observed at the end of a minute:
“I have had better fortune than I hoped. It was very kind of her to see
me. Perhaps you said a good word for me.”
“It was the idea of the money,” said Miss Tita.
“And did you suggest that?”
“I told her that you would perhaps give a good deal.”
“What made you think that?”
“I told her I thought you were rich.”
“And what put that idea into your head?”
“I don’t know; the way you talked.”
“Dear me, I must talk differently now,” I declared. “I’m sorry to say
it’s not the case.”
“Well,” said Miss Tita, “I think that in Venice the forestieri, in
general, often give a great deal for something that after all isn’t
much.” She appeared to make this remark with a comforting intention,
to wish to remind me that if I had been extravagant I was not really
foolishly singular. We walked together along the sala, and as I took its
magnificent measure I said to her that I was afraid it would not form
a part of my quartiere. Were my rooms by chance to be among those that
opened into it? “Not if you go above, on the second floor,” she answered
with a little startled air, as if she had rather taken for granted I
would know my proper place.
“And I infer that that’s where your aunt would like me to be.”
“She said your apartments ought to be very distinct.”
“That certainly would be best.” And I listened with respect while she
told me that up above I was free to take whatever I liked; that there
was another staircase, but only from the floor on which we stood, and
that to pass from it to the garden-story or to come up to my lodging I
should have in effect to cross the great hall. This was an immense
point gained; I foresaw that it would constitute my whole leverage in
my relations with the two ladies. When I asked Miss Tita how I was to
manage at present to find my way up she replied with an access of that
sociable shyness which constantly marked her manner.
“Perhaps you can’t. I don’t see--unless I should go with you.” She
evidently had not thought of this before.
We ascended to the upper floor and visited a long succession of empty
rooms. The best of them looked over the garden; some of the others had a
view of the blue lagoon, above the opposite rough-tiled housetops. They
were all dusty and even a little disfigured with long neglect, but I saw
that by spending a few hundred francs I should be able to convert three
or four of them into a convenient habitation. My experiment was turning
out costly, yet now that I had all but taken possession I ceased to
allow this to trouble me. I mentioned to my companion a few of the
things that I should put in, but she replied rather more precipitately
than usual that I might do exactly what I liked; she seemed to wish to
notify me that the Misses Bordereau would take no overt interest in my
proceedings. I guessed that her aunt had instructed her to adopt this
tone, and I may as well say now that I came afterward to distinguish
perfectly (as I believed) between the speeches she made on her own
responsibility and those the old lady imposed upon her. She took
no notice of the unswept condition of the rooms and indulged in no
explanations nor apologies. I said to myself that this was a sign that
Juliana and her niece (disenchanting idea!) were untidy persons, with a
low Italian standard; but I afterward recognized that a lodger who had
forced an entrance had no locus standi as a critic. We looked out of a
good many windows, for there was nothing within the rooms to look at,
and still I wanted to linger. I asked her what several different objects
in the prospect might be, but in no case did she appear to know. She was
evidently not familiar with the view--it was as if she had not looked
at it for years--and I presently saw that she was too preoccupied with
something else to pretend to care for it. Suddenly she said--the remark
was not suggested:
“I don’t know whether it will make any difference to you, but the money
is for me.”
“The money?”
“The money you are going to bring.”
“Why, you’ll make me wish to stay here two or three years.” I spoke as
benevolently as possible, though it had begun to act on my nerves that
with these women so associated with Aspern the pecuniary question should
constantly come back.
“That would be very good for me,” she replied, smiling.
“You put me on my honor!”
She looked as if she failed to understand this, but went on: “She wants
me to have more. She thinks she is going to die.”
“Ah, not soon, I hope!” I exclaimed with genuine feeling. I had
perfectly considered the possibility that she would destroy her papers
on the day she should feel her end really approach. I believed that she
would cling to them till then, and I think I had an idea that she
read Aspern’s letters over every night or at least pressed them to her
withered lips. I would have given a good deal to have a glimpse of the
latter spectacle. I asked Miss Tita if the old lady were seriously ill,
and she replied that she was only very tired--she had lived so very,
very long. That was what she said herself--she wanted to die for a
change. Besides, all her friends were dead long ago; either they ought
to have remained or she ought to have gone. That was another thing her
aunt often said--she was not at all content.
“But people don’t die when they like, do they?” Miss Tita inquired. I
took the liberty of asking why, if there was actually enough money to
maintain both of them, there would not be more than enough in case of
her being left alone. She considered this difficult problem a moment
and then she said, “Oh, well, you know, she takes care of me. She thinks
that when I’m alone I shall be a great fool, I shall not know how to
manage.”
“I should have supposed that you took care of her. I’m afraid she is
very proud.”
“Why, have you discovered that already?” Miss Tita cried with the
glimmer of an illumination in her face.
“I was shut up with her there for a considerable time, and she struck
me, she interested me extremely. It didn’t take me long to make my
discovery. She won’t have much to say to me while I’m here.”
“No, I don’t think she will,” my companion averred.
“Do you suppose she has some suspicion of me?”
Miss Tita’s honest eyes gave me no sign that I had touched a mark. “I
shouldn’t think so--letting you in after all so easily.”
“Oh, so easily! she has covered her risk. But where is it that one could
take an advantage of her?”
“I oughtn’t to tell you if I knew, ought I?” And Miss Tita added, before
I had time to reply to this, smiling dolefully, “Do you think we have
any weak points?”
“That’s exactly what I’m asking. You would only have to mention them for
me to respect them religiously.”
She looked at me, at this, with that air of timid but candid and even
gratified curiosity with which she had confronted me from the first; and
then she said, “There is nothing to tell. We are terribly quiet. I don’t
know how the days pass. We have no life.”
“I wish I might think that I should bring you a little.”
“Oh, we know what we want,” she went on. “It’s all right.”
There were various things I desired to ask her: how in the world they
did live; whether they had any friends or visitors, any relations in
America or in other countries. But I judged such an inquiry would
be premature; I must leave it to a later chance. “Well, don’t YOU be
proud,” I contented myself with saying. “Don’t hide from me altogether.”
“Oh, I must stay with my aunt,” she returned, without looking at me.
And at the same moment, abruptly, without any ceremony of parting, she
quitted me and disappeared, leaving me to make my own way downstairs. I
remained a while longer, wandering about the bright desert (the sun was
pouring in) of the old house, thinking the situation over on the
spot. Not even the pattering little serva came to look after me, and I
reflected that after all this treatment showed confidence.