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It was incontestable that； whether for right or for wrong；
most readers of certain of Aspern's poems （poems not as
ambiguous as the sonnetsscarcely more divine； I think
of Shakespeare） had taken for granted that Juliana had
not always adhered to the steep footway of renunciation。
There hovered about her name a perfume of reckless passion；
an intimation that she had not been exactly as the respectable
young person in general。 Was this a sign that her singer had
betrayed her； had given her away； as we say nowadays； to posterity？
Certain it is that it would have been difficult to put one's finger
on the passage in which her fair fame suffered an imputation。
Moreover was not any fame fair enough that was so sure of duration
and was associated with works immortal through their beauty？
It was a part of my idea that the young lady had had
a foreign lover （and an unedifying tragical rupture）
before her meeting with Jeffrey Aspern。 She had lived with
her father and sister in a queer old…fashioned； expatriated；
artistic Bohemia； in the days when the aesthetic was only
the academic and the painters who knew the best models for a
contadina and pifferaro wore peaked hats and long hair。
It was a society less furnished than the coteries of today
（in its ignorance of the wonderful chances； the opportunities
of the early bird； with which its path was strewn）；
with tatters of old stuff and fragments of old crockery；
so that Miss Bordereau appeared not to have picked up or have
inherited many objects of importance。 There was no enviable
bric…a…brac； with its provoking legend of cheapness； in the room
in which I had seen her。 Such a fact as that suggested bareness；
but nonetheless it worked happily into the sentimental
interest I had always taken in the early movements of my
countrymen as visitors to Europe。 When Americans went abroad
in 1820 there was something romantic； almost heroic in it；
as compared with the perpetual ferryings of the present hour；
when photography and other conveniences have annihilated surprise。
Miss Bordereau sailed with her family on a tossing brig；
in the days of long voyages and sharp differences； she had her
emotions on the top of yellow diligences； passed the night
at inns where she dreamed of travelers' tales； and was struck；
on reaching the Eternal City； with the elegance of Roman pearls
and scarfs。 There was something touching to me in all that；
and my imagination frequently went back to the period。
If Miss Bordereau carried it there of course Jeffrey Aspern
at other times had done so a great deal more。 It was a much
more important fact； if one were looking at his genius critically；
that he had lived in the days before the general transfusion。
It had happened to me to regret that he had known Europe at all；
I should have liked to see what he would have written without
that experience； by which he had incontestably been enriched。
But as his fate had ordered otherwise I went with him
I tried to judge how the Old World would have struck him。
It was not only there； however； that I watched him； the relations
he had entertained with the new had even a livelier interest。
His own country after all had had most of his life； and his muse；
as they said at that time； was essentially American。
That was originally what I had loved him for： that at a period
when our native land was nude and crude and provincial；
when the famous 〃atmosphere〃 it is supposed to lack was not
even missed； when literature was lonely there and art and form
almost impossible； he had found means to live and write like one
of the first； to be free and general and not at all afraid；
to feel； understand； and express everything。
V
I was seldom at home in the evening； for when I attempted to
occupy myself in my apartments the lamplight brought in a swarm
of noxious insects； and it was too hot for closed windows。
Accordingly I spent the late hours either on the water
（the moonlight of Venice is famous）； or in the splendid square
which serves as a vast forecourt to the strange old basilica
of Saint Mark。 I sat in front of Florian's cafe； eating ices；
listening to music； talking with acquaintances： the traveler
will remember how the immense cluster of tables and little chairs
stretches like a promontory into the smooth lake of the Piazza。
The whole place； of a summer's evening； under the stars and with
all the lamps； all the voices and light footsteps on marble
（the only sounds of the arcades that enclose it）； is like an open…air
saloon dedicated to cooling drinks and to a still finer degustation
that of the exquisite impressions received during the day。
When I did not prefer to keep mine to myself there was always
a stray tourist； disencumbered of his Baedeker； to discuss them with；
or some domesticated painter rejoicing in the return of the season
of strong effects。 The wonderful church； with its low domes and
bristling embroideries； the mystery of its mosaic and sculpture；
looking ghostly in the tempered gloom； and the sea breeze passed
between the twin columns of the Piazzetta； the lintels of a door no
longer guarded； as gently as if a rich curtain were swaying there。
I used sometimes on these occasions to think of the Misses Bordereau
and of the pity of their being shut up in apartments which in the Venetian
July even Venetian vastness did not prevent from being stuffy。
Their life seemed miles away from the life of the Piazza； and no doubt
it was really too late to make the austere Juliana change her habits。
But poor Miss Tita would have enjoyed one of Florian's ices； I was sure；
sometimes I even had thoughts of carrying one home to her。
Fortunately my patience bore fruit； and I was not obliged to do
anything so ridiculous。
One evening about the middle of July I came in earlier than usual
I forget what chance had led to thisand instead of going up to my
quarters made my way into the garden。 The temperature was very high；
it was such a night as one would gladly have spent in the open air；
and I was in no hurry to go to bed。 I had floated home in my gondola；
listening to the slow splash of the oar in the narrow dark canals；
and now the only thought that solicited me was the vague reflection
that it would be pleasant to recline at one's length in the fragrant
darkness on a garden bench。 The odor of the canal was doubtless
at the bottom of that aspiration and the breath of the garden；
as I entered it； gave consistency to my purpose。 it was delicious
just such an air as must have trembled with Romeo's vows when he stood
among the flowers and raised his arms to his mistress's balcony。
I looked at the windows of the palace to see if by chance
the example of Verona （Verona being not far off） had been followed；
but everything was dim； as usual； and everything was still。
Juliana； on summer nights in her youth； might have murmured down
from open windows at Jeffrey Aspern； but M