Angela

by William Schwenk Gilbert

I am a poor paralysed man who, for many years, has not moved from a bed or a sofa. For the last six years I have stayed in a small room, next to one of the canals of Venice, and have no-one with me except a deaf old woman, who makes my bed and gets my food. There I just survive on a poor income from making pictures of flowers and fruit, and these I send to a friend in London, who sells them for small sums of money. But, on the whole, I am happy.

I should describe the position of my room in detail. Its only window is about two metres above the water of the canal. I cannot see more than about three metres of the house immediately opposite me, although I can see a great distance up and down the canal, which is just five metres wide. But, although I can see only a little of the house opposite, I can see its reflection upside down in the canal, and I take great interest in anyone that shows themselves from time to time (always upside down) on its balconies and at its windows.

When I first got my room about six years ago, I noticed the reflection of a little girl of thirteen or so, who spent every day on a balcony. She had a glass of flowers on a little table by her side and as she sat there, in fine weather from early morning until dark, working all the time, I decided that she earnt her income by sewing. She was certainly a hard-working little girl and, as far as I could see from her upside-down reflection, neatly dressed and pretty.

She had an old mother, an invalid who, on warm days, would sit on the balcony with her, and it interested me to see the girl make sure the old lady was warm and bring cushions for her chair and, every now and again, put down her work and kiss her before taking up her sewing again.

Time went by, and the little girl grew up and at last she was a woman of, I suppose, sixteen or seventeen. I can only work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of the day, so I had a lot of time on my hands to watch her movements and enough imagination to dream a little romance about her. I could give her a beauty which I had to take for granted. I saw – or imagined I could see – that she began to take an interest in my reflection (which, of course, she could see as I could see hers) and, one day when it seemed she was looking right at it – that’s to say, when her reflection seemed to be looking right at mine – I tried nodding to her and I was delighted that her reflection nodded in reply. And so our two reflections became known to one another.

It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, but a long time passed before I could make up my mind to do more than nod to her every morning, when the old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the window and, again in the evening, when the girl left the balcony. One day, however, when I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several times in return and I saw her tell her mother about it.

Then every morning I threw a flower into the water for 'good morning', and another in the evening for 'goodnight', and I soon discovered that I had not thrown them in vain, for one day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed when she saw the two flowers float away together in the river. And then every morning and every evening she threw her flower when I threw mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped her hands, and so did I; but when they were separated, as they sometimes were, she threw up her hands in despair, which I tried to copy but in an unsuccessful English way. And when they were sunk by a passing gondola (which happened quite often) she pretended to cry, and I did the same. And so our innocent romance went on.

One day the girl did not appear on her balcony, and for several days I saw nothing of her and, although I threw my flowers as usual, no flower came to keep it company. However, after a time, she reappeared, dressed in black and crying and then I knew that the poor child's mother was dead and, as far as I knew, she was alone in the world.

The flowers did not come for many days, nor did she show any sign that she recognised me, but kept her eyes on her work, except when she put her handkerchief to them. And opposite her was the old lady's chair and I could see that, from time to time, she would put down her work and gaze at it, and then she would cry again. But, at last, one day she nodded to me, and then her flowers came again, day by day, and my flower went to join them again.

But the darkest day of all to me was when a good-looking young gondolier brought his boat near the house and stood talking to her as she sat on the balcony. They seemed to speak like old friends – in fact, he held her by the hand while they were talking, which lasted more than half an hour. Eventually he left and left my heart heavy inside me. But, as soon as he was out of sight, the girl threw two flowers growing on the same stem to show me that he and she were brother and sister, and that I had no reason to be sad. And then I nodded to her happily and she nodded to me and laughed and I laughed in return, and everything went on like before.

Then came a dark and dreary time because I had to have treatment that kept me in bed for many days, and I worried that the girl and I could not see each other and, worse still, that she would think I had gone away without even letting her know I was going. And I lay awake at night wondering how I could let her know the truth, and fifty plans went through my head, all seeming sensible enough at night, but absolutely wild and impracticable in the morning.

One day – it was a very bright day for me – the old woman who looked after me told me that a gondolier had asked whether the Englishman had gone away or had died; and so I learnt that the girl had been worried about me and sent her brother to ask, and the brother had no doubt told her why I could not come to the window.

From that day, and every day during my three weeks in bed, a flower was found by my window, which was within easy reach of anyone in a boat; and when at last a day came when I could move, I took my usual place on my sofa at the window, and the girl saw me and stood on her head (so to speak) and clapped her hands upside down.

And so the first time the gondolier passed my window I called him and he came next to my window and told me, with many bright smiles, that he was glad to see me well again. Then I thanked him and his sister for their many kind thoughts about me during my illness. I then learnt that her name was Angela and that she was the best girl in all Venice, and that anyone might think himself happy to call her sister, but that he was happier even than her brother, because he was going to be married to her the next day.

Then my heart seemed to break. I managed at last to stammer congratulations and he left me, singing happily, after asking to bring his bride to see me as they returned from church the next day.

'Because', he said, 'my Angela has known you a very long time – ever since she was a child, and she has often spoken to me of the poor Englishman who lay all day long for years and years on a sofa at a window, and she had said over and over again how much she wished she could speak to him; and, one day, when you threw a flower into the canal, she asked me if she could throw another and I told her yes, because he’d understand that it meant sympathy for him.'

And so I learned that it was pity, and not love, that made her interested in me, and there was an end of it all. The two flowers that I thought were on one stem were two flowers tied together (but I could not tell that), and they were meant to show that she and the gondolier were engaged and my pleasure at this symbol delighted her, because she took it to mean that I enjoyed her happiness.

And the next day the gondolier came with many other gondoliers, all dressed in their holiday clothes, and on his gondola sat Angela, happy. Then he and she entered the house where I lived and came into my room (and it was very strange, after so many years of reflection, to see her with her head above her feet!), and then she wished me happiness and good health (which could never be) and I, in broken words and with tears in my eyes, thanked her.

And as I heard the song of the gondoliers as they went away – the song dying in the distance as the shadows of the sunset closed around me – I felt that they were singing the death of the only love that had ever entered my heart.