FROM that day forth, I know not why, I became the adviser and confidant
of this young girl, who returned and conversed with me for hours. She at
first said, “You are so good, sir, that I feel just the same when I am
here as if I were your own daughter.”
“That is a very poor compliment,” replied I, dropping her hand; “I am
hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon me as if I were an old father.”
“No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;” and she insisted upon
taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent confidence and
affection.
I am glad, thought I to myself, that you are no beauty; else, alas, this
innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert me; at other times I
thought it is lucky, too, she is so young, there could never be any
danger of becoming attached to girls of her years. At other times,
however, I felt a little uneasy, thinking I was mistaken in having
pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were by
no means wanting in proportion or expression. If she were not quite so
pale, I said, and her face free from those marks, she might really pass
for a beauty. It is impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in the
presence and in the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and
affection. I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will; yet
was I as dear to either as a father or a brother, whichever title I
preferred. And why? Only because she had read _Francesca da Rimini_ and
_Eufemio_, and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often; then,
besides, I was a solitary prisoner, _without having_, as she observed,
either robbed or murdered anybody.
In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, without once
seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the
sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little
compliments, and to the most delicious cups of coffee of this young
Venice girl, my gentle little jailer? {14} I should be trying to impose
on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not
having fallen in love with Angiola. I did not do so, simply from the
circumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, to whom
she was desperately, unalterably attached. Heaven help me! if it had not
been thus I should have found myself in a very _critical_ position,
indeed, for an author, with so little to keep alive his attention. The
sentiment I felt for her was not, then, what is called love. I wished to
see her happy, and that she might be united to the lover of her choice; I
was not jealous, nor had I the remotest idea she could ever select me as
the object of her regard. Still, when I heard my prison-door open, my
heart began to beat in the hope it was my Angiola; and if she appeared
not, I experienced a peculiar kind of vexation; when she really came my
heart throbbed yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy. Her
parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were aware
of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to the visits
she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to bring me my coffee
in a morning, and not unfrequently in the evening.
There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness in her every
word, look, and gesture, which were really captivating. She would say,
“I am excessively attached to another, and yet I take such delight in
being near you! When I am not in _his_ company, I like being nowhere so
well as here.” (Here was another compliment.)
“And don’t you know why?” inquired I.
“I do not.”
“I will tell you, then. It is because I permit you to talk about your
lover.”
“That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal because I
esteem you so very much!”
Poor girl! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin of
taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart, not
perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her
affectionate manner. Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall this
excellent little girl to mind without the least tinge of remorse.