章节正文
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 writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">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 hurriedupstairs 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.
VI
One afternoon, as I came down from my quarters to go out,
I found Miss Tita in the sala: it was our first
encounter on that ground since I had come to the house.
She put on no air of being there by accident; there was an
ignorance of such arts in her angular, diffident directness.
That I might be quite sure she was waiting for me she informed me
of the fact and told me that Miss Bordereau wished to see me:
she would take me into the room at that moment if I had time.
If I had been late for a love tryst I would have stayed for this,
and I quickly signified that I should be delighted to wait
upon the old lady. "She wants to talk with you--to know you,"
Miss Tita said, smiling as if she herself appreciated that idea;
and she led me to the door of her aunt's apartment.
I stopped her a moment before she had opened it, looking at
her with some curiosity. I told her that this was a great
satisfaction to me and a great honor; but all the same I should
like to ask what had made Miss Bordereau change so suddenly.
It was only the other day that she wouldn't suffer me near her.
Miss Tita was not embarrassed by my question; she had as many
little unexpected serenities as if she told fibs, but the odd
part of them was that they had on the contrary their source
in her truthfulness. "Oh, my aunt changes," she answered;
"it's so terribly dull--I suppose she's tired."
"But you told me that she wanted more and more to be alone."
Poor Miss Tita colored, as if she found me over-insistent. "Well,
if you don't believe she wants to see you--I haven't invented it!
I think people often are capricious when they are very old."
"That's perfectly true. I only wanted to be clear as to whether
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 writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">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 hurriedupstairs 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.
VI
One afternoon, as I came down from my quarters to go out,
I found Miss Tita in the sala: it was our first
encounter on that ground since I had come to the house.
She put on no air of being there by accident; there was an
ignorance of such arts in her angular, diffident directness.
That I might be quite sure she was waiting for me she informed me
of the fact and told me that Miss Bordereau wished to see me:
she would take me into the room at that moment if I had time.
If I had been late for a love tryst I would have stayed for this,
and I quickly signified that I should be delighted to wait
upon the old lady. "She wants to talk with you--to know you,"
Miss Tita said, smiling as if she herself appreciated that idea;
and she led me to the door of her aunt's apartment.
I stopped her a moment before she had opened it, looking at
her with some curiosity. I told her that this was a great
satisfaction to me and a great honor; but all the same I should
like to ask what had made Miss Bordereau change so suddenly.
It was only the other day that she wouldn't suffer me near her.
Miss Tita was not embarrassed by my question; she had as many
little unexpected serenities as if she told fibs, but the odd
part of them was that they had on the contrary their source
in her truthfulness. "Oh, my aunt changes," she answered;
"it's so terribly dull--I suppose she's tired."
"But you told me that she wanted more and more to be alone."
Poor Miss Tita colored, as if she found me over-insistent. "Well,
if you don't believe she wants to see you--I haven't invented it!
I think people often are capricious when they are very old."
"That's perfectly true. I only wanted to be clear as to whether
- impression [im´preʃən]
n.印刷；印象；效果 (初中英语单词) - brilliant [´briliənt] a.灿烂的；杰出的 (初中英语单词)
- glimpse [glimps] n.&v.瞥见 (初中英语单词)
- professional [prə´feʃənəl] a.职业的 n.自由职业 (初中英语单词)
- contact [´kɔntækt] n.接触；联系 v.联络 (初中英语单词)
- purely [´pjuəli] ad.仅仅；简单地 (初中英语单词)
- mingle [´miŋgəl] v.(使)混合；交往 (初中英语单词)
- entertain [,entə´tein] vt.招待；娱乐；使高兴 (初中英语单词)
- temple [´tempəl] n.庙宇；寺院；太阳穴 (初中英语单词)
- existence [ig´zistəns] n.存在；生存；生活 (初中英语单词)
- handwriting [´hænd,raitiŋ] n.笔迹；书法 (初中英语单词)
- connection [kə´nekʃən] n.联系；关系；联运 (初中英语单词)
- companion [kəm´pæniən] n.同伴；同事；伴侣 (初中英语单词)
- midnight [´midnait] n.午夜；漆黑 (初中英语单词)
- italian [i´tæliən] a.意大利 n.意大利人 (初中英语单词)
- therefore [´ðeəfɔ:] ad.&conj.因此；所以 (初中英语单词)
- altogether [,ɔ:ltə´geðə] ad.完全；总而言之 (初中英语单词)
- innocent [´inəsənt] a.无罪的；单纯的 (初中英语单词)
- confess [kən´fes] vt.供认；坦白；承认 (初中英语单词)
- volume [´vɔlju:m, ´vɑljəm] n.卷；书籍；体积；容量 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- frighten [´fraitn] vt.吓唬，使惊惧 (初中英语单词)
- glorious [´glɔ:riəs] a.光荣的；辉煌的 (初中英语单词)
- prominent [´prɔminənt] a.突起的；凸出的 (初中英语单词)
- parlor [´pɑ:lə] n.客厅；起居室 (初中英语单词)
- writing [´raitiŋ] n.书写；写作；书法 (初中英语单词)
- slightly [´slaitli] ad.轻微地；细长的 (初中英语单词)
- opening [´əupəniŋ] n.开放；开端 a.开始的 (初中英语单词)
- resort [ri´zɔ:t] vi.求助；乞灵；诉诸 (初中英语单词)
- beheld [bi´held] behold的过去式(分词) (初中英语单词)
- patience [´peiʃəns] n.忍耐(力)；耐心；坚韧 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- curiosity [,kjuəri´ɔsiti] n.好奇；奇事；珍品 (初中英语单词)
- contrary [´kɔntrəri] a.相反的 n.相反 (初中英语单词)
- terribly [´terəbli] ad.可怕地 (初中英语单词)
- picnic [´piknik] n.郊游 vi.(去)野餐 (高中英语单词)
- decent [´di:sənt] a.体面的，正派的 (高中英语单词)
- venice [´venis] n.威尼斯 (高中英语单词)
- solitary [´sɔlitəri] a.独居的；孤独的 (高中英语单词)
- behavior [bi´heiviə] n.举止，行为 (高中英语单词)
- temptation [temp´teiʃən] n.引诱，诱惑(物) (高中英语单词)
- pronounced [prə´naunst] a.发出音的；显著的 (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- portrait [´pɔ:trit] n.肖像；相片；雕像 (高中英语单词)
- apparently [ə´pærəntli] ad.显然，表面上地 (高中英语单词)
- personally [´pə:sənəli] ad.亲自；就个人来说 (高中英语单词)
- hesitation [,hezi´teiʃən] n.犹豫，踌躇 (高中英语单词)
- hurried [´hʌrid] a.仓促的，慌忙的 (高中英语单词)
- fortnight [´fɔ:tnait] n.两星期 (高中英语单词)
- gardener [´gɑ:dnə] n.园艺家；园林工人 (高中英语单词)
- unexpected [ʌniks´pektid] a.突然的；意外的 (高中英语单词)
- perfectly [´pə:fiktli] ad.理想地；完美地 (高中英语单词)
- venetian [vi´ni:ʃ(ə)n] a.威尼斯城的 (英语四级单词)
- inasmuch [,inəz´mʌtʃ] conj.因为；鉴于 (英语四级单词)
- midsummer [´mid,sʌmə] n.仲夏；夏至 (英语四级单词)
- trivial [´triviəl] a.琐碎的；不重要的 (英语四级单词)
- staircase [´steəkeis] n.楼梯 =stairway (英语四级单词)
- lastly [´lɑ:stli] ad.最后，终于 (英语四级单词)
- upstairs [,ʌp´steəz] ad.在楼上 a.楼上的 (英语四级单词)
- delighted [di´laitid] a.高兴的；喜欢的 (英语四级单词)
文章标签:名著
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