The Aspern Papers

By Henry James

In this classic 1888 novella, an anonymous narrator relates his obsessive quest to acquire some letters and other private documents that once belonged to the deceased Romantic poet Jeffrey Aspern. Attempting to gain access to the papers, the property of Aspern's former mistress, he rents a room in a decaying Venetian villa where the woman lives with her aging niece. Led by his zeal into increasingly unscrupulous behavior, the narrator is faced in the end with relinquishing his heart's desire or attaining it an an overwhelming price.
Inspired by an actual incident involving Claire Clairmont, once the mistress of Lord Byron, this masterfully written tale incorporates all those elements expected from James: psychological subtlety, deft plotting, the clash of cultures, and profoundly nuanced representation of scene, mood, and character. This volume also contains James's celebrated Preface from the New York edition of his collected works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Jun 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780486158457

Henry James

Henry James (1843-1916) was an American author of novels, short stories, plays, and non-fiction. He spent most of his life in Europe, and much of his work regards the interactions and complexities between American and European characters. Among his works in this vein are The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Bostonians (1886), and The Ambassadors (1903). Through his influence, James ushered in the era of American realism in literature. In his lifetime he wrote 12 plays, 112 short stories, 20 novels, and many travel and critical works. He was nominated three times for the Noble Prize in Literature.

Book preview

Preface

From the Preface to Volume XII of The Novels and Tales of Henry James (the New York Edition), 1908.

I not only recover with ease, but I delight to recall, the first impulse given to the idea of The Aspern Papers. It is at the same time true that my present mention of it may perhaps too effectually dispose of any complacent claim to my having found the situation. Not that I quite know indeed what situations the seeking fabulist does find; he seeks them enough assuredly, but his discoveries are, like those of the navigator, the chemist, the biologist, scarce more than alert recognitions. He comes upon the interesting thing as Columbus came upon the isle of San Salvador, because he had moved in the right direction for it— also because he knew, with the encounter, what making land then and there represented. Nature had so placed it, to profit—if as profit we may measure the matter!—by his fine unrest, just as history, literary history we in this connexion call it, had in an out-of-the-way corner of the great garden of life thrown off a curious flower that I was to feel worth gathering as soon as I saw it. I got wind of my positive fact, I followed the scent. It was in Florence years ago; which is precisely, of the whole matter, what I like most to remember. The air of the old-time Italy invests it, a mixture that on the faintest invitation I rejoice again to inhale—and this in spite of the mere cold renewal, ever, of the infirm side of that felicity, the sense, in the whole element, of things too numerous, too deep, too obscure, too strange, or even simply too beautiful, for any ease of intellectual relation. One must pay one’s self largely with words, I think, one must induce almost any Italian subject to make believe it gives up its secret, in order to keep at all on working—or call them perhaps rather playing—terms with the general impression. We entertain it thus, the impression, by the aid of a merciful convention which resembles the fashion of our intercourse with Iberians or Orientals whose form of courtesy places everything they have at our disposal. We thank them and call upon them, but without acting on their professions. The offer has been too large and our assurance is too small; we peep at most into two or three of the chambers of their hospitality, with the rest of the case stretching beyond our ken and escaping our penetration. The pious fiction suffices; we have entered, we have seen, we are charmed. So, right and left, in Italy—before the great historic complexity at least—penetration fails; we scratch at the extensive surface, we meet the perfunctory smile, we hang about in the golden air. But we exaggerate our gathered values only if we are eminently witless. It is fortunately the exhibition in all the world before which, as admirers, we can most remain superficial without feeling silly.

All of which I note, however, perhaps with too scant relevance to the inexhaustible charm of Roman and Florentine memories. Off the ground, at a distance, our fond indifference to being silly grows fonder still; the working convention, as I have called it—the convention of the real revelations and surrenders on one side and the real immersions and appreciations on the other—has not only nothing to keep it down, but every glimpse of contrast, every pang of exile and every nostalgic twinge to keep it up. These latter haunting presences in fact, let me note, almost reduce at first to a mere blurred, sad, scarcely consolable vision this present revisiting, re-appropriating impulse. There are parts of one’s past, evidently, that bask consentingly and serenely enough in the light of other days—which is but the intensity of thought; and there are other parts that take it as with agitation and pain, a troubled consciousness that heaves as with the disorder of drinking it deeply in. So it is at any rate, fairly in too thick and rich a retrospect, that I see my old Venice of The Aspern Papers, that I see the still earlier one of Jeffrey Aspern himself, and that I see even the comparatively recent Florence that was to drop into my ear the solicitation of these things. I would fain lay it on thick for the very love of them—that at least I may profess; and, with the ground of this desire frankly admitted, something that somehow makes, in the whole story, for a romantic harmony. I have had occasion in the course of these remarks to define my sense of the romantic, and am glad to encounter again here an instance of that virtue as I understand it. I shall presently say why this small case so ranges itself, but must first refer more exactly to the thrill of appreciation it was immediately to excite in me. I saw it somehow at the very first blush as romantic—for the use, of course I mean, I should certainly have had to make of it—that Jane Clairmont, the half-sister of Mary Godwin, Shelley’s second wife and for a while the intimate friend of Byron and the mother of his daughter Allegra, should have been living on in Florence, where she had long lived, up to our own day, and that in fact, had I happened to hear of her but a little sooner, I might have seen her in the flesh. The question of whether I should have wished to do so was another matter—the question of whether I shouldn’t have preferred to keep her preciously unseen, to run no risk, in other words, by too rude a choice, of depreciating that romance-value which, as I say, it was instantly inevitably to attach (through association above all, with another signal circumstance) to her long survival.

I had luckily not had to deal with the difficult option; difficult in such a case by reason of that odd law which somehow always makes the minimum of valid suggestion serve the man of imagination better than the maximum. The historian, essentially, wants more documents than he can really use; the dramatist only wants more liberties than he can really take. Nothing, fortunately, however, had, as the case stood, depended on my delicacy; I might have looked up Miss Clairmont in previous years had I been earlier informed—the silence about her seemed full of the irony of fate; but I felt myself more concerned with the mere strong fact of her having testified for the reality and the closeness of our relation to the past than with any question of the particular sort of person I might have flattered myself I found. I had certainly at the very least been saved the undue simplicity of pretending to read meanings into things absolutely sealed and beyond test or proof—to tap a fount of waters that couldn’t possibly not have run dry. The thrill of learning that she had overlapped, and by so much, and the wonder of my having doubtless at several earlier seasons passed again and again, all unknowing, the door of her house, where she sat above, within call and in her habit as she lived, these things gave me all I wanted; I seem to remember in fact that my more or less immediately recognising that I positively oughtn’t— for anything to come of it —to have wanted more. I saw, quickly, how something might come of it thus; whereas a fine instinct told me that the effect of a nearer view of the case (the case of the overlapping) would probably have had to be quite differently calculable. It was really with another item of knowledge, however, that I measured the mistake I should have made in waking up sooner to the question of opportunity. That item consisted of the action taken on the premises by a person who had waked up in time, and the legend of whose consequent adventure, as a few spoken words put it before me, at once kindled a flame. This gentleman, an American of long ago, an ardent Shelleyite, a singularly marked figure and himself in the highest degree a subject for a free sketch—I had known him a little, but there is not a reflected glint of him in The Aspern Papers —was named to me as having made interest with Miss Clairmont to be accepted as a lodger on the calculation that she would have Shelley documents for which, in the possibly not remote event of her death, he would thus enjoy priority of chance to treat with her representatives. He had at any rate, according to the legend, become, on earnest Shelley grounds, her yearning, though also her highly diplomatic, pensionnaire—but without gathering, as was to befall, the fruit of his design.

Legend here dropped to another key; it remained in a manner interesting, but became to my ear a trifle coarse, or at least rather vague and obscure. It mentioned a younger female relative of the ancient woman as a person who, for a queer climax, had had to be dealt with; it flickered so for a moment and then, as a light, to my great relief, quite went out. It had flickered indeed but at the best—yet had flickered enough to give me my facts, bare facts of intimation; which, scant handful though they were, were more distinct and more numerous than I mostly like facts: like them, that is, as we say of an etcher’s progressive subject, in an early state. Nine tenths of the artist’s interest in them is that of what he shall add to them and how he shall turn them. Mine, however, in the connexion I speak of, had fortunately got away from me, and quite of their own movement, in time not to crush me. So it was, at all events, that my imagination preserved power to react under the mere essential charm—that, I mean, of a final scene of the rich dim Shelley drama played out in the very theatre of our own modernity. This was the beauty that appealed to me; there had been, so to speak, a forward continuity, from the actual man, the divine poet, on; and the curious, the ingenious, the admirable thing would be to throw it backward again, to compress—squeezing it hard!—the connexion that had drawn itself out, and convert so the stretched relation into a value of nearness on our own part. In short I saw my chance as admirable, and one reason, when the direction is right, may serve as well as fifty; but if I took over, as I say, everything that was of the essence, I stayed my hand for the rest. The Italian side of the legend closely clung; if only because the so possible terms of my Juliana’s life in the Italy of other days could make conceivable for her the fortunate privacy, the long uninvaded and uninterviewed state on which I represent her situation as founded. Yes, a surviving unexploited unparagraphed Juliana was up to a quarter of a century since still supposeable—as much so as any such buried treasure, any such grave unprofaned, would defy probability now. And then the case had the air of the past just in the degree in which that air, I confess, most appeals to me—when the region over which it hangs is far enough away without being too far.

I delight in a palpable imaginable visitable past—in the nearer distances and the clearer mysteries, the marks and signs of a world we may reach over to as by making a long arm we grasp an object at the other end of our own table. The table is the one, the common expanse, and where we lean, so stretching, we find it firm and continuous. That, to my imagination, is the past fragrant of all, or of almost all, the poetry of the thing outlived and lost and gone, and yet in which the precious element of closeness, telling so of connexions but tasting so of differences, remains appreciable. With more moves back the element of the appreciable shrinks—just as the charm of looking over a garden-wall into another garden breaks down when successions of walls appear. The other gardens, those still beyond, may be there, but even by use of our longest ladder we are baffled and bewildered—the view is mainly a view of barriers. The one partition makes the place we have wondered about other, both richly and recogniseably so; but who shall pretend to impute an effect of composition to the twenty? We are divided of course between liking to feel the past strange and liking to feel it familiar; the difficulty is, for intensity, to catch it at the moment when the scales of the balance hang with the right evenness. I say for intensity, for we may profit by them in other aspects enough if we are content to measure or to feel loosely. It would

Reviews for The Aspern Papers

[hemlokgang · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This story began at an excruciatingly slow pace and then improved as it went along. Basically, this is a tale of greed in several forms and the battle between it and higher principles. Quite derogatory towards women if you ask me. The problem is that is is really well written.

[nosajeel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Aspern Papers is an outstanding novella, not quite as spine tingling as The Turn of the Screw, but still it manages to build suspense around a simple plot of a literary critic masquerading as a lodger in the attempt to get the letters that a famous American poet, Jeffrey Aspern, wrote to an older woman living in an old palace in Venice with her niece. The novel beautifully describes the three main characters--with Venice as a beautifully described fourth character lurking not too far in the background.

The narrator is in many ways very unsympathetic, in that he is lying to his hostess and even pretending to be in love with the hostesses niece just to get his hands on papers they do not want to deliver. But he is also obsessed, serving the higher purpose of the poet Jeffrey Aspern, and also fully honest and transparent with himself about his motives and his means.

The older woman, who is believed to have had an affair with the famous poet in her youth, is in some ways even more interesting--cagey, mercenary, but also deeply private and protective of her legacy.

And then there's her niece, an elderly spinster who is portrayed as naive, loyal to her aunt, but also intrigued and excited about the new stranger who moves in with them.

All three of these characters are increasingly intertwined as the tension builds to a well constructed conclusion.

[bibleblaster · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The first person narration leaves the reader in questionable company as the main character unswervingly but increasingly recklessly seeks the object of his passion (the papers of famed poet, Aspern, that provides the title). The self-justification and maneuvers of the narrator, as well as the dialogue that leaves us feeling neither person was understanding the other, is expertly drawn. You can see why James is considered a master.

[p_s_patrick · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a novella of 130 pages, set in 1880's Venice. Our protagonist is a writer and critic who studies among other things the works of Jeffrey Aspern, a famous deceased American poet. He is on the trail of Aspern's undiscovered papers, which he believes to be in possession of one of his more obscure past lovers, who now at an advanced age is infirm and confined to a secluded dusty Venetian palazzo. The story tells of our hero's efforts to inveigle his way into the household of the elderly lady in order to gain possession of the papers. It is a story of obsession, tension, and psychology. Henry James is a fine writer who not only knows how to write good prose, but also how to pace a story and tell a good tale.

[cbl_tn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When a literary editor discovers that the Juliana who inspired long-dead poet Jeffrey Aspern is still living in Venice and may have letters and other papers relating to the poet, he schemes to get access to the papers. He meets the woman and her niece under an assumed name and insinuates himself into their lives. Soon he's involved in a battle of wits with the old woman as he attempts to get her to disclose the existence and location of the poet's papers without revealing his true identity to her. To what lengths will he go to gain his prize?The novella is said to have been inspired by an incident concerning Claire Clairmont, Byron's mistress who long outlived him and who was believed to have papers related to the dead poet. The story suggests that celebrity journalism has a long history, and only the methods have changed. It also provides a snapshot of expatriate life in late 19th century Europe. The unnamed literary editor serves as the first person narrator, and I enjoyed hearing the story read by Adrian Cronauer.

[lkernagh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really liked this one. Having never read any Henry James before, I figured it was best to start out with a novella, just to see if I would like the writing style. Not only did I like the writing style, I really enjoyed the calm, serene manner in which the story unfolds in that wonderful Italian city, Venice. James does a first rate job communicating the experience of Venice as a warm, delightful one to behold while at the same time shrouding the elderly Miss Bordereau and her spinster niece, Tina under a darkened veil of mystery. The story has no jarring elements to it. Instead, it has a beautiful fluidity to it that made me want to curl up in a chair and just let the story wash over me. Keeping in mind that the story was written well over 100 years ago, the increasingly unscrupulous behavior of our narrator would probably not even cause an eyebrow to be raised today but James does a great job conveying how inappropriate our narrator's thoughts and actions are, making me resent his almost single-minded mission to inveigle his way into the Misses Bordereau's home and lives. It wasn't until the very end before I realized what a wonderful game of cat and mouse has played out in this story. This story is praised as being a brilliant work of psychological fiction, and I believe it is exactly that. A perfect introduction to Henry James' works, for me anyways, and I am now quite happy to add him to my list of classic authors I am slowly working my way through.

[elenadanielson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I just re-read Henry James' novella the "Aspern Papers," again a second time after thirty years. It was first recommended to me in about 1985 by Jean van Heijenoort, Leon Trotsky's secretary and, after the murder, his archivist, as the best depiction of an archivist's passion for finding the papers of a "great man." Even the first time around I certainly appreciated the fine description of a collector's monomania. I've seen archivists turn themselves inside out to ingratiate themselves with the "keeper of the flame" in hopes of scoring the spoils, and at time resorting to flattery, lies, deceptions, phoney friendship, and non-existent jobs. Looking at a small miniature painting of Aspern, the narrator thinks that it is not very well painted, but talking with the old lady, Juliana,the owner of the painting, he praises it highly, and then learns that it was painted by her father. The narrator's relief that he avoided a misstep by avoiding the truth is almost palpable. I've seen this kind of hypocrisy in action many times. Re-reading the story at leisure, I realize that the story is about much more, all about the treacherous moral ground that a biographer or really any historian treads, invading private lives and exposing them to the world. Who has the moral right to do such a thing? James was writing just as emerging technology enabled newspaper photographers to print photos without the permission of the subjects and expose unsuspecting people to the uncaring scrutiny of the masses. James himself was secretive about his private life and his many intense friendships with women as well as men as he roamed Europe. He knew the terrain. The act of publishing is a violation of privacy as Juliana, the owner of the letters accuses the narrator:"Ah you publishing scoundrel!" The narrator is willing to lie, cheat and steal to see the content of the great poet Aspern's private love letters. The narrator knows to keep his own privacy: his real name is not revealed and not even the fictitious name he uses to gain entrance to Juliana's Venetian Palazzo. So he is definitely immoral. But there is more. From start to finish, the unnamed biographer makes snide gratuitous comments denigrating women, particularly Juliana's niece Miss Tina: "It was impossible to allow too much for her simplicity." It's up to the reader to decide what actually causes his defeat. There is an ironic, self-aware soap opera technique at work in the novella, with a cliff hanger or shocker at the end of each chapter, a relic I suppose of the way the book was serialized in its initial publication over several months in "The Atlantic." Chapter two ends in a parody of the serial style: "My emotion keeping me silent she spoke first, and the remark she made was exactly the most unexpected." Chapter ends. This understated self-aware humor is a sheer delight. He wrote under the spell of Florence and Venice, the initial impetus being an ancient English resident in Florence with letters of Byron and Shelley. He shifted the scene from Florence to Venice with all that eerie Venetian light and crumbling grandeur. And he shifted the subject from a fine English poet to a non-existent American, knowing well there never was an American poet in 1820 of the same stature as Byron. Ironic wishful thinking here.There is clear foreshadowing, this is not a spoiler it's early in the story, that the papers turn to ashes...but the tension is in why and how....I love it...but then I'm an archivist. Then in a case of life imitating art, some years after writing the story one of his close friends, Constance Fenimore Woolson, the great niece of Fenimore Cooper, committed suicide, jumping out of the window of her Venetian apartment. Earlier James and Fenimore had shared the same cook and shared meals every night in Florence for weeks. It's known that she had wanted a closer relationship, rather like Miss Tina and the narrator. After her suicide, James ingratiated himself with her family by spending weeks sorting her papers. And her letters from James disappeared along with most of hers to him. Anita Feferman wrote a fine biography of my friend Jean van Heijenoort entitled "Politics, Logic and Love," but she published it after Jean's death. Privacy in legal terms is supposed to end at death. Editing his stories and his own papers, James ensured his privacy and his fame way into the future.

[leandra53 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Der namen- und alterslose Erzähler dieser Geschichte reist aus Amerika nach Venedig, weil er erfahren hat, dass die ehemalige Geliebte des von ihm angebeteten (fiktiven) Dichters Jeffrey Aspern - der selbst schon seit vielen Jahrzehnten tot ist - noch lebt und - so vermutet er - zahlreiche Briefe und weitere Schätze des Dichters hütet. Der Wunsch des Erzählers, diese Schriften in seinen Besitz zu bringen und für seine literarischen Forschungen zu analysieren, wird zur Besessenheit. Also mietet er sich unter Verschleierung seiner Identität in dem alten Palast in Venedig, in dem die alte Dame und ihre Nichte sehr zurückgezogen leben, als Untermieter ein. Zwischen den drei Personen entwickelt sich ein zunehmend spannendes Katz- und Maus-Spiel um diese Papiere, das Henry James auf gewohnt hohem literarischem Niveau beschreibt.