“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 now 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 as 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.