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CHAPTER II
"I must work the garden--I must work the garden," I said to myself,
five minutes later, as I waited, upstairs, in the long,
dusky sala, where the bare scagliola floor gleamed vaguely
in a chink of the closed shutters. The place was impressive
but it looked cold and cautious. Mrs. Prest had floated away,
giving me a rendezvous at the end of half an hour by some
neighboring water steps; and I had been let into the house,
after pulling the rusty bell wire, by a little red-headed,
white-faced maidservant, who was very young and not ugly and
wore clicking pattens and a shawl in the fashion of a hood.
She had not contented herself with opening the door from above
by the usual arrangement of a creaking pulley, though she
had looked down at me first from an upper window, dropping the
inevitable challenge which in Italy precedes the hospitable act.
As a general thing I was irritated by this survival of
medieval manners, though as I liked the old I suppose I ought
to have liked it; but I was so determined to be genial that I
took my false card out of my pocket and held it up to her,
smiling as if it were a magic token. It had the effect of
one indeed, for it brought her, as I say, all the way down.
I begged her to hand it to her mistress, having first written on
it in Italian the words, "Could you very kindly see a gentleman,
an American, for a moment?" The little maid was not hostile,
and I reflected that even that was perhaps something gained.
She colored, she smiled and looked both frightened and pleased.
I could see that my arrival was a great affair, that visits
were rare in that house, and that she was a person who would
have liked a sociable place. When she pushed forward the heavy
door behind me I felt that I had a foot in the citadel.
She pattered across the damp, stony lower hall and I followed
her up the high staircase--stonier still, as it seemed--
without an invitation. I think she had meant I should wait
for her below, but such was not my idea, and I took up my
station in the sala. She flitted, at the far end of it,
into impenetrable regions, and I looked at the place with my
heart beating as I had known it to do in the dentist's parlor.
It was gloomy and stately, but it owed its character almost
entirely to its noble shape and to the fine architectural doors--
as high as the doors of houses--which, leading into the
various rooms, repeated themselves on either side at intervals.
They were surmounted with old faded painted escutcheons,
and here and there, in the spaces between them, brown pictures,
which I perceived to be bad, in battered frames, were suspended.
With the exception of several straw-bottomed chairs with
their backs to the wall, the grand obscure vista contained
nothing else to minister to effect. It was evidently
never used save as a passage, and little even as that.
I may add that by the time the door opened again through
which the maidservant had escaped, my eyes had grown used
to the want of light.
I had not meant by my private ejaculation that I must myself cultivate
the soil of the tangled enclosure which lay beneath the windows,
but the lady who came toward me from the distance over the hard,
shining floor might have supposed as much from the way in which, as I
went rapidly to meet her, I exclaimed, taking care to speak Italian:
"The garden, the garden--do me the pleasure to tell me if it's yours!"
She stopped short, looking at me with wonder; and then, "Nothing here
is mine," she answered in English, coldly and sadly.
"Oh, you are English; how delightful!" I remarked, ingenuously.
"But surely the garden belongs to the house?"
"Yes, but the house doesn't belong to me." She was a long,
lean, pale person, habited apparently in a dull-colored
dressing gown, and she spoke with a kind of mild literalness.
She did not ask me to sit down, any more than years before
(if she were the niece) she had asked Mrs. Prest, and we stood
face to face in the empty pompous hall.
"Well then, would you kindly tell me to whom I must address myself?
I'm afraid you'll think me odiously intrusive, but you know I MUST
have a garden--upon my honor I must!"
Her face was not young, but it was simple; it was not fresh, but it was mild.
She had large eyes which were not bright, and a great deal of hair which
was not "dressed," and long fine hands which were--possibly--not clean.
She clasped these members almost convulsively as, with a confused,
alarmed look, she broke out, "Oh, don't take it away from us;
we like it ourselves!"
"You have the use of it then?"
"Oh, yes. If it wasn't for that!" And she gave a shy, melancholy smile.
"Isn't it a luxury, precisely? That's why, intending to be
in Venice some weeks, possibly all summer, and having some
literary work, some reading and writing to do, so that I must
be quiet, and yet if possible a great deal in the open air--
that's why I have felt that a garden is really indispensable.
I appeal to your own experience," I went on, smiling.
"Now can't I look at yours?"
"I don't know, I don't understand," the poor woman murmured,
planted there and letting her embarrassed eyes wander all
over my strangeness.
"I mean only from one of those windows--such grand ones
as you have here--if you will let me open the shutters."
And I walked toward the back of the house. When I had advanced
halfway I stopped and waited, as if I took it for granted she would
accompany me. I had been of necessity very abrupt, but I strove
at the same time to give her the impression of extreme courtesy.
"I have been looking at furnished rooms all over the place,
and it seems impossible to find any with a garden attached.
Naturally in a place like Venice gardens are rare. It's absurd
if you like, for a man, but I can't live without flowers."
"There are none to speak of down there." She came nearer to me, as if,
though she mistrusted me, I had drawn her by an invisible thread.
I went on again, and she continued as she followed me: "We have a few,
but they are very common. It costs too much to cultivate them;
one has to have a man."
"Why shouldn't I be the man?" I asked. "I'll work without wages;
or rather I'll put in a gardener. You shall have the sweetest
flowers in Venice."
She protested at this, with a queer little sigh which might
also have been a gush of rapture at the picture I presented.
Then she observed, "We don't know you--we don't know you."
"You know me as much as I know you: that is much more, because you
know my name. And if you are English I am almost a countryman."
"We are not English," said my companion, watching me helplessly while I threw
open the shutters of one of the divisions of the wide high window.
"You speak the language so beautifully: might I ask what you are?"
Seen from above the garden was certainly shabby; but I perceived
at a glance that it had great capabilities. She made no rejoinder,
she was so lost in staring at me, and I exclaimed, "You don't mean
to say you are also by chance American?"
"I don't know; we used to be."
"Used to be? Surely you haven't changed?"
"It's so many years ago--we are nothing."
"So many years that you have been living here? Well, I don't wonder
at that; it's a grand old house. I suppose you all use the garden,"
I went on, "but I assure you I shouldn't be in your way.
I would be very quiet and stay in one corner."
"We all use it?" she repeated after me, vaguely, not coming close
to the window but looking at my shoes. She appeared to think me
capable of throwing her out.
"I mean all your family, as many as you are."
"There is only one other; she is very old--she never goes down."
"Only one other, in all this great house!" I feigned to be not only amazed
but almost scandalized. "Dear lady, you must have space then to spare!"
"To spare?" she repeated, in the same dazed way.
"Why, you surely don't live (two quiet women--I see YOU
are quiet, at any rate) in fifty rooms!" Then with a burst
of hope and cheer I demanded: "Couldn't you let me two or three?
That would set me up!"
I had not struck the note that translated my purpose, and I need
not reproduce the whole of the tune I played. I ended by making my
interlocutress believe that I was an honorable person, though of course
I did not even attempt to persuade her that I was not an eccentric one.
I repeated that I had studies to pursue; that I wanted quiet;
that I delighted in a garden and had vainly sought one up and
down the city; that I would undertake that before another month
was over the dear old house should be smothered in flowers.
I think it was the flowers that won my suit, for I afterward found
that Miss Tita (for such the name of this high tremulous spinster proved
somewhat incongruously to be) had an insatiable appetite for them.
When I speak of my suit as won I mean that before I left her she
had promised that she would refer the question to her aunt.
I inquired who her aunt might be and she answered, "Why, Miss Bordereau!"
with an air of surprise, as if I might have been expected to know.
There were contradictions like this in Tita Bordereau which, as I
observed later, contributed to make her an odd and affecting person.
It was the study of the two ladies to live so that the world
should not touch them, and yet they had never altogether accepted
the idea that it never heard of them. In Tita at any rate
a grateful susceptibility to human contact had not died out,
and contact of a limited order there would be if I should come
to live in the house.
"We have never done anything of the sort; we have never had a lodger
or any kind of inmate." So much as this she made a point of saying to me.
"We are very poor, we live very badly. The rooms are very bare--
that you might take; they have nothing in them. I don't know how you
would sleep, how you would eat."
"With your permission, I could easily put in a bed and a few
tables and chairs. C'est la moindre des choses and
the affair of an hour or two. I know a little man from whom
I can hire what I should want for a few months, for a trifle,
and my gondolier can bring the things round in his boat.
Of course in this great house you must have a second kitchen,
and my servant, who is a wonderfully handy fellow" (this personage
was an evocation of the moment), "can easily cook me a chop there.
My tastes and habits are of the simplest; I live on flowers!"
And then I ventured to add that if they were very poor
it was all the more reason they should let their rooms.
They were bad economists--I had never heard of such a
waste of material.
I saw in a moment that the good lady had never before been spoken
to in that way, with a kind of humorous firmness which did
not exclude sympathy but was on the contrary founded on it.
She might easily have told me that my sympathy was impertinent,
but this by good fortune did not occur to her.
I left her with the understanding that she would consider
the matter with her aunt and that I might come back the next day
for their decision.
"The aunt will refuse; she will think the whole proceeding very louche!"
Mrs. Prest declared shortly after this, when I had resumed my place
in her gondola. She had put the idea into my head and now (so little
are women to be counted on) she appeared to take a despondent view of it.
Her pessimism provoked me and I pretended to have the best hopes; I went
so far as to say that I had a distinct presentiment that I should succeed.
Upon this Mrs. Prest broke out, "Oh, I see what's in your head!
You fancy you have made such an impression in a quarter of an hour that she
is dying for you to come and can be depended upon to bring the old one round.
If you do get in you'll count it as a triumph."
I did count it as a triumph, but only for the editor
(in the last analysis), not for the man, who had not the tradition
of personal conquest. When I went back on the morrow the little
maidservant conducted me straight through the long sala
(it opened there as before in perfect perspective and was lighter now,
which I thought a good omen) into the apartment from which
the recipient of my former visit had emerged on that occasion.
It was a large shabby parlor, with a fine old painted ceiling
and a strange figure sitting alone at one of the windows.
They come back to me now almost with the palpitation
they caused, the successive feelings that accompanied my
consciousness that as the door of the room closed behind
me I was really face to face with the Juliana of some
of Aspern's most exquisite and most renowned lyrics.
I grew used to her afterward, though never completely;
but as she sat there before me my heart beat as fast as if
the miracle of resurrection had taken place for my benefit.
Her presence seemed somehow to contain his, and I felt
nearer to him at that first moment of seeing her than I ever
had been before or ever have been since. Yes, I remember
my emotions in their order, even including a curious little
tremor that took me when I saw that the niece was not there.
With her, the day before, I had become sufficiently familiar,
but it almost exceeded my courage (much s I had longed for the event)
to be left alone with such a terrible relic as the aunt.
She was too strange, too literally resurgent. Then came a check,
with the perception that we were not really face to face,
inasmuch as she had over her eyes a horrible green shade which,
for her, served almost as a mask. I believed for the instant
that she had put it on expressly, so that from underneath it
she might scrutinize me without being scrutinized herself.
At the same time it increased the presumption that there was
a ghastly death's-head lurking behind it. The divine Juliana
as a grinning skull--the vision hung there until it passed.
Then it came to me that she WAS tremendously old--
so old that death might take her at any moment, before I had time
to get what I wanted from her. The next thought was a correction
to that; it lighted up the situation. She would die next week,
she would die tomorrow--then I could seize her papers.
Meanwhile she sat there neither moving nor speaking. She was
very small and shrunken, bent forward, with her hands in her lap.
She was dressed in black, and her head was wrapped in a piece
of old black lace which showed no hair.
My emotion keeping me silent she spoke first, and the remark
she made was exactly the most unexpected.
Content of CHAPTER II [Henry James' novel: The Aspern Papers]
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