The Aspern Papers | Page 5

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of research we had to deal with phantoms and dust, the mere echoes of
echoes, the one living source of information that had lingered on into
our time had been unheeded by us. Every one of Aspern's
contemporaries had, according to our belief, passed away; we had not
been able to look into a single pair of eyes into which his had looked or
to feel a transmitted contact in any aged hand that his had touched.

Most dead of all did poor Miss Bordereau appear, and yet she alone had
survived. We exhausted in the course of months our wonder that we
had not found her out sooner, and the substance of our explanation was
that she had kept so quiet. The poor lady on the whole had had reason
for doing so. But it was a revelation to us that it was possible to keep so
quiet as that in the latter half of the nineteenth century-- the age of
newspapers and telegrams and photographs and interviewers. And she
had taken no great trouble about it either: she had not hidden herself
away in an undiscoverable hole; she had boldly settled down in a city
of exhibition. The only secret of her safety that we could perceive was
that Venice contained so many curiosities that were greater than she.
And then accident had somehow favored her, as was shown for
example in the fact that Mrs. Prest had never happened to mention her
to me, though I had spent three weeks in Venice--under her nose, as it
were--five years before. Mrs. Prest had not mentioned this much to
anyone; she appeared almost to have forgotten she was there. Of course
she had not the responsibilities of an editor. It was no explanation of
the old woman's having eluded us to say that she lived abroad, for our
researches had again and again taken us (not only by correspondence
but by personal inquiry) to France, to Germany, to Italy, in which
countries, not counting his important stay in England, so many of the
too few years of Aspern's career were spent. We were glad to think at
least that in all our publishings (some people consider I believe that we
have overdone them), we had only touched in passing and in the most
discreet manner on Miss Bordereau's connection. Oddly enough, even
if we had had the material (and we often wondered what had become of
it), it would have been the most difficult episode to handle.
The gondola stopped, the old palace was there; it was a house of the
class which in Venice carries even in extreme dilapidation the dignified
name. "How charming! It's gray and pink!" my companion exclaimed;
and that is the most comprehensive description of it. It was not
particularly old, only two or three centuries; and it had an air not so
much of decay as of quiet discouragement, as if it had rather missed its
career. But its wide front, with a stone balcony from end to end of the
piano nobile or most important floor, was architectural enough, with
the aid of various pilasters and arches; and the stucco with which in the

intervals it had long ago been endued was rosy in the April afternoon. It
overlooked a clean, melancholy, unfrequented canal, which had a
narrow riva or convenient footway on either side. "I don't know
why--there are no brick gables," said Mrs. Prest, "but this corner has
seemed to me before more Dutch than Italian, more like Amsterdam
than like Venice. It's perversely clean, for reasons of its own; and
though you can pass on foot scarcely anyone ever thinks of doing so. It
has the air of a Protestant Sunday. Perhaps the people are afraid of the
Misses Bordereau. I daresay they have the reputation of witches."
I forget what answer I made to this--I was given up to two other
reflections. The first of these was that if the old lady lived in such a big,
imposing house she could not be in any sort of misery and therefore
would not be tempted by a chance to let a couple of rooms. I expressed
this idea to Mrs. Prest, who gave me a very logical reply. "If she didn't
live in a big house how could it be a question of her having rooms to
spare? If she were not amply lodged herself you would lack ground to
approach her. Besides, a big house here, and especially in this quartier
perdu, proves nothing at all: it is perfectly compatible with a state of
penury. Dilapidated old palazzi, if you will go out of the way for them,
are to be had for five shillings a year. And as for the people who live in
them--no, until you have