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.
CHAPTER XXX.
The following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I had at least run half mad to enliven my solitude. There was, however, another sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united our hearts in one. And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produced only sincere regret.
Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and finding her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had at first imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous when near, I took upon myself to play the unamiable, in the idea that this would remove all danger by making her leave off the same affectionate and familiar manner. This innocent stratagem was tried in vain; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me. She would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and say, after a long pause, “I see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet I would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours from hanging so heavy upon you. This ill-humour of yours is the natural effect of your long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would be quite well again. If you don’t like to talk, I will talk for you.”