Page 96 of Collected Stories


  ‘The aunt will refuse; she will think the whole proceeding very louche!’ Mrs Prest declared shortly after this, when I had resumed my place in her gondola. She had put the idea into my head and now (so little are women to be counted on) she appeared to take a despondent view of it. Her pessimism provoked me and I pretended to have the best hopes; I went so far as to say that I had a distinct presentiment that I should succeed. Upon this Mrs Prest broke out, ‘Oh, I see what’s in your head! You fancy you have made such an impression in a quarter of an hour that she is dying for you to come and can be depended upon to bring the old one round. If you do get in you’ll count it as a triumph.’

  I did count it as a triumph, but only for the editor (in the last analysis), not for the man, who had not the tradition of personal conquest. When I went back on the morrow the little maid-servant conducted me straight through the long sala (it opened there as before in perfect perspective and was lighter now, which I thought a good omen) into the apartment from which the recipient of my former visit had emerged on that occasion. It was a large shabby parlour, with a fine old painted ceiling and a strange figure sitting alone at one of the windows. They come back to me now almost with the palpitation they caused, the successive feelings that accompanied my consciousness that as the door of the room closed behind me I was really face to face with the Juliana of some of Aspern’s most exquisite and most renowned lyrics. I grew used to her afterwards, though never completely; but as she sat there before me my heart beat as fast as if the miracle of resurrection had taken place for my benefit. Her presence seemed somehow to contain his, and I felt nearer to him at that first moment of seeing her than I ever had been before or ever have been since. Yes, I remember my emotions in their order, even including a curious little tremor that took me when I saw that the niece was not there. With her, the day before, I had become sufficiently familiar, but it almost exceeded my courage (much as I had longed for the event) to be left alone with such a terrible relic as the aunt. She was too strange, too literally resurgent. Then came a check, with the perception that we were not really face to face, inasmuch as she had over her eyes a horrible green shade which, for her, served already as a mask. I believed for the instant that she had put it on expressly, so that from underneath it she might scrutinise me without being scrutinised herself. At the same time it increased the presumption that there was a ghastly death’s-head lurking behind it. The divine Juliana as a grinning skull – the vision hung there until it passed. Then it came to me that she was tremendously old – so old that death might take her at any moment, before I had time to get what I wanted from her. The next thought was a correction to that; it lighted up the situation. She would die next week, she would die to-morrow – then I could seize her papers. Meanwhile she sat there neither moving nor speaking. She was very small and shrunken, bent forward, with her hands in her lap. She was dressed in black and her head was wrapped in a piece of old black lace which showed no hair.

  My emotion keeping me silent she spoke first, and the remark she made was exactly the most unexpected.

  III

  ‘OUR house is very far from the centre, 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 honour 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 honour 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 shrivelled 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 far-away 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 to-day.’ 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 it 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 to-morrow!’

  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 to-morrow 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 to-day 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-humouredly 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 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-storey 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 afterwards 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 afterwards recognised 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.