Part 5 - The Age of Innocence Audiobook by Edith Wharton (Chs 31-34)

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The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton CHAPTER XXXI.
Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news.
It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in
response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain
under her roof--especially now that Mrs.
Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain.
Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the
change in her financial situation.
He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at
their separation.
Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on,
in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who
shared her life, had been ruined, such a
pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed.
Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's
offer from interested motives.
She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to
large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which
her relations considered indispensable, and
Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one
who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should
care so little about "how things were done."
Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut
off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grandmother's favour.
Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason.
He did not have far to seek for that reason.
On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she
had said it with her head on his breast.
He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her
fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should
not break faith with the people who trusted them.
But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had
perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see
her, that he was meditating a decisive
step, a step from which there was no turning back.
At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she
might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in
such cases, and follow the line of least resistance.
An hour earlier, when he had rung Mrs. Mingott's bell, Archer had fancied that his
path was clear before him.
He had meant to have a word alone with Madame Olenska, and failing that, to learn
from her grandmother on what day, and by which train, she was returning to
In that train he intended to join her, and travel with her to Washington, or as much
farther as she was willing to go. His own fancy inclined to Japan.
At any rate she would understand at once that, wherever she went, he was going.
He meant to leave a note for May that should cut off any other alternative.
He had fancied himself not only nerved for this plunge but eager to take it; yet his
first feeling on hearing that the course of events was changed had been one of relief.
Now, however, as he walked home from Mrs. Mingott's, he was conscious of a growing
distaste for what lay before him.
There was nothing unknown or unfamiliar in the path he was presumably to tread; but
when he had trodden it before it was as a free man, who was accountable to no one for
his actions, and could lend himself with an
amused detachment to the game of precautions and prevarications,
concealments and compliances, that the part required.
This procedure was called "protecting a woman's honour"; and the best fiction,
combined with the after-dinner talk of his elders, had long since initiated him into
every detail of its code.
Now he saw the matter in a new light, and his part in it seemed singularly
It was, in fact, that which, with a secret fatuity, he had watched Mrs. Thorley
Rushworth play toward a fond and unperceiving husband: a smiling, bantering,
humouring, watchful and incessant lie.
A lie by day, a lie by night, a lie in every touch and every look; a lie in every
caress and every quarrel; a lie in every word and in every silence.
It was easier, and less dastardly on the whole, for a wife to play such a part
toward her husband.
A woman's standard of truthfulness was tacitly held to be lower: she was the
subject creature, and versed in the arts of the enslaved.
Then she could always plead moods and nerves, and the right not to be held too
strictly to account; and even in the most strait-laced societies the laugh was always
against the husband.
But in Archer's little world no one laughed at a wife deceived, and a certain measure
of contempt was attached to men who continued their philandering after
In the rotation of crops there was a recognised season for wild oats; but they
were not to be sown more than once. Archer had always shared this view: in his
heart he thought Lefferts despicable.
But to love Ellen Olenska was not to become a man like Lefferts: for the first time
Archer found himself face to face with the dread argument of the individual case.
Ellen Olenska was like no other woman, he was like no other man: their situation,
therefore, resembled no one else's, and they were answerable to no tribunal but
that of their own judgment.
Yes, but in ten minutes more he would be mounting his own doorstep; and there were
May, and habit, and honour, and all the old decencies that he and his people had always
believed in...
At his corner he hesitated, and then walked on down Fifth Avenue.
Ahead of him, in the winter night, loomed a big unlit house.
As he drew near he thought how often he had seen it blazing with lights, its steps
awninged and carpeted, and carriages waiting in double line to draw up at the
It was in the conservatory that stretched its dead-black bulk down the side street
that he had taken his first kiss from May; it was under the myriad candles of the
ball-room that he had seen her appear, tall and silver-shining as a young Diana.
Now the house was as dark as the grave, except for a faint flare of gas in the
basement, and a light in one upstairs room where the blind had not been lowered.
As Archer reached the corner he saw that the carriage standing at the door was Mrs.
Manson Mingott's. What an opportunity for Sillerton Jackson,
if he should chance to pass!
Archer had been greatly moved by old Catherine's account of Madame Olenska's
attitude toward Mrs. Beaufort; it made the righteous reprobation of New York seem like
a passing by on the other side.
But he knew well enough what construction the clubs and drawing-rooms would put on
Ellen Olenska's visits to her cousin. He paused and looked up at the lighted
No doubt the two women were sitting together in that room: Beaufort had
probably sought consolation elsewhere.
There were even rumours that he had left New York with Fanny Ring; but Mrs.
Beaufort's attitude made the report seem improbable.
Archer had the nocturnal perspective of Fifth Avenue almost to himself.
At that hour most people were indoors, dressing for dinner; and he was secretly
glad that Ellen's exit was likely to be unobserved.
As the thought passed through his mind the door opened, and she came out.
Behind her was a faint light, such as might have been carried down the stairs to show
her the way.
She turned to say a word to some one; then the door closed, and she came down the
steps. "Ellen," he said in a low voice, as she
reached the pavement.
She stopped with a slight start, and just then he saw two young men of fashionable
cut approaching.
There was a familiar air about their overcoats and the way their smart silk
mufflers were folded over their white ties; and he wondered how youths of their quality
happened to be dining out so early.
Then he remembered that the Reggie Chiverses, whose house was a few doors
above, were taking a large party that evening to see Adelaide Neilson in Romeo
and Juliet, and guessed that the two were of the number.
They passed under a lamp, and he recognised Lawrence Lefferts and a young Chivers.
A mean desire not to have Madame Olenska seen at the Beauforts' door vanished as he
felt the penetrating warmth of her hand.
"I shall see you now--we shall be together," he broke out, hardly knowing
what he said. "Ah," she answered, "Granny has told you?"
While he watched her he was aware that Lefferts and Chivers, on reaching the
farther side of the street corner, had discreetly struck away across Fifth Avenue.
It was the kind of masculine solidarity that he himself often practised; now he
sickened at their connivance. Did she really imagine that he and she
could live like this?
And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where
we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears.
She wavered, and moved toward the carriage.
"But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if
conscious that her change of plans required some explanation.
"Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted.
She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York?
But there are no monuments."
"There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled.
"At half-past two. I shall be at the door..."
She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage.
As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the
He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings.
It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a
woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find
himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary.
"She'll come!" he said to himself, almost contemptuously.
Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the
main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the
Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down
a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited
They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan
enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets
mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.
"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before."
"Ah, well--.
Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum."
"Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room.
Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even
under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a
dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear.
His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious
details that made her herself and no other.
Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood.
Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable
domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of
discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances.
"It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters...any more than these
little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now
have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'"
"Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--"
As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round
muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose,
and the bunch of violets he had brought her
stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of
line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change.
"Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said.
She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan.
He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off
down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes.
"What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same
warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined.
"Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid."
"Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington."
She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily.
"Well--?" "Well--yes," she said.
"You WERE afraid?
You knew--?" "Yes: I knew..."
"Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she
returned with a long questioning sigh.
"Better--?" "We shall hurt others less.
Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?"
"To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach?
To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want.
I told you the other day what I wanted."
She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?"
"A thousand times!" He paused.
"It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable."
"Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief.
He sprang up impatiently.
"Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?"
She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff.
The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the
room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis.
They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official
figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again.
"What do you think better?"
Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it
seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?"
She bent her head slightly, without looking at him.
"Safer from loving me?"
Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh
of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm.
Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested.
"What others? I don't profess to be different from my
I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings."
She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her
"Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear
voice. The blood rushed to the young man's
"Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his
hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim.
Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded.
"Go home? What do you mean by going home?"
"Home to my husband."
"And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his.
"What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people
who've been good to me."
"But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!"
"And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?"
Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair.
It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once."
He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no
difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband.
But something silenced the word on his lips.
A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw
her into that familiar trap.
"If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go
again." And that was not to be imagined.
But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered.
"After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own....
There's no use attempting the impossible.
You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the
Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really
is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making."
She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown.
"Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom.
She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.
"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of
losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies.
"When?" he insisted.
"Tomorrow?" She hesitated.
"The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again.
She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's
eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep
inner radiance.
His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible.
"Oh, I shall be late--good-bye.
No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long
room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her.
When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell.
Archer walked home alone.
Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the
familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the
The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper
landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?"
"No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come
With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his
The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto
the dying fire.
When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his
chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate.
He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a
deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it.
"This was what had to be, then...this was what had to be," he kept repeating to
himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom.
What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in
his rapture. The door opened and May came in.
"I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on
his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished.
"Is it late?"
"After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"
She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa.
She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.
"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I
stayed and had a long talk with her.
It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair,
facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair.
He fancied she expected him to speak.
"A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural
vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen.
I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately.
I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the
mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp.
"Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused.
"Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the
She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous.
I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem
dreadfully dull to her.
But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with
the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep
blush on her cheeks.
Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in
the Mission Garden at St. Augustine.
He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward
something beyond the usual range of her vision.
"She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get
me to help her to overcome it."
The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence
between them, and throwing himself on her mercy.
"You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been
annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first;
but she never seemed to understand.
And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's
carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van
der Luydens..."
"Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them
again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out,
aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire.
She rose also, but lingered near the hearth.
As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their
eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her
to drive to Jersey City.
She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his.
"You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton CHAPTER XXXII.
"At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent
smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated."
The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and
the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art.
Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff,
whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure.
It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown
by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever.
It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to
show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors.
"It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think
they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people
push in and get a footing.
It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first
appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the
You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have."
Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly
but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out
invitations for two dinners and an evening reception.
On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland
and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first
time that winter.
Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were
but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper
sequence of courses might be served without
haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars.
Archer had not seen his wife since the evening before.
He had left early for the office, where he had plunged into an accumulation of
unimportant business.
In the afternoon one of the senior partners had made an unexpected call on his time;
and he had reached home so late that May had preceded him to the van der Luydens',
and sent back the carriage.
Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and the massive plate, she struck him as pale
and languid; but her eyes shone, and she talked with exaggerated animation.
The subject which had called forth Mr. Sillerton Jackson's favourite allusion had
been brought up (Archer fancied not without intention) by their hostess.
The Beaufort failure, or rather the Beaufort attitude since the failure, was
still a fruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist; and after it had been thoroughly
examined and condemned Mrs. van der Luyden
had turned her scrupulous eyes on May Archer.
"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true?
I was told your grandmother Mingott's carriage was seen standing at Mrs.
Beaufort's door." It was noticeable that she no longer called
the offending lady by her Christian name.
May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hastily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was
there without Mrs. Mingott's knowledge." "Ah, you think--?"
Mrs. van der Luyden paused, sighed, and glanced at her husband.
"I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "that Madame Olenska's kind heart may have
led her into the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beaufort."
"Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs. Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes
dwelt innocently on her son's.
"I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," said Mrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer
murmured: "Ah, my dear--and after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!"
It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite
"At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on
him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where
Morny's money came from--!
Or who paid the debts of some of the Court beauties..."
"I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "you are not suggesting that we should
adopt such standards?"
"I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imperturbably.
"But Madame Olenska's foreign bringing-up may make her less particular--"
"Ah," the two elder ladies sighed.
"Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriage at a defaulter's door!"
Mr. van der Luyden protested; and Archer guessed that he was remembering, and
resenting, the hampers of carnations he had sent to the little house in Twenty-third
"Of course I've always said that she looks at things quite differently," Mrs. Archer
summed up. A flush rose to May's forehead.
She looked across the table at her husband, and said precipitately: "I'm sure Ellen
meant it kindly."
"Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs. Archer, as if the fact were scarcely
an extenuation; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "If only she had consulted some
"Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined.
At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at his wife, who bent her head slightly in the
direction of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trains of the three ladies swept
out of the door while the gentlemen settled down to their cigars.
Mr. van der Luyden supplied short ones on Opera nights; but they were so good that
they made his guests deplore his inexorable punctuality.
Archer, after the first act, had detached himself from the party and made his way to
the back of the club box.
From there he watched, over various Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoulders,
the same scene that he had looked at, two years previously, on the night of his first
meeting with Ellen Olenska.
He had half-expected her to appear again in old Mrs. Mingott's box, but it remained
empty; and he sat motionless, his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly Madame
Nilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama, non m'ama..."
Archer turned to the stage, where, in the familiar setting of giant roses and pen-
wiper pansies, the same large blonde victim was succumbing to the same small brown
From the stage his eyes wandered to the point of the horseshoe where May sat
between two older ladies, just as, on that former evening, she had sat between Mrs.
Lovell Mingott and her newly-arrived "foreign" cousin.
As on that evening, she was all in white; and Archer, who had not noticed what she
wore, recognised the blue-white satin and old lace of her wedding dress.
It was the custom, in old New York, for brides to appear in this costly garment
during the first year or two of marriage: his mother, he knew, kept hers in tissue
paper in the hope that Janey might some day
wear it, though poor Janey was reaching the age when pearl grey poplin and no
bridesmaids would be thought more "appropriate."
It struck Archer that May, since their return from Europe, had seldom worn her
bridal satin, and the surprise of seeing her in it made him compare her appearance
with that of the young girl he had watched
with such blissful anticipations two years earlier.
Though May's outline was slightly heavier, as her goddesslike build had foretold, her
athletic erectness of carriage, and the girlish transparency of her expression,
remained unchanged: but for the slight
languor that Archer had lately noticed in her she would have been the exact image of
the girl playing with the bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley on her betrothal
The fact seemed an additional appeal to his pity: such innocence was as moving as the
trustful clasp of a child.
Then he remembered the passionate generosity latent under that incurious
He recalled her glance of understanding when he had urged that their engagement
should be announced at the Beaufort ball; he heard the voice in which she had said,
in the Mission garden: "I couldn't have my
happiness made out of a wrong--a wrong to some one else;" and an uncontrollable
longing seized him to tell her the truth, to throw himself on her generosity, and ask
for the freedom he had once refused.
Newland Archer was a quiet and self- controlled young man.
Conformity to the discipline of a small society had become almost his second
It was deeply distasteful to him to do anything melodramatic and conspicuous,
anything Mr. van der Luyden would have deprecated and the club box condemned as
bad form.
But he had become suddenly unconscious of the club box, of Mr. van der Luyden, of all
that had so long enclosed him in the warm shelter of habit.
He walked along the semi-circular passage at the back of the house, and opened the
door of Mrs. van der Luyden's box as if it had been a gate into the unknown.
"M'ama!" thrilled out the triumphant Marguerite; and the occupants of the box
looked up in surprise at Archer's entrance.
He had already broken one of the rules of his world, which forbade the entering of a
box during a solo. Slipping between Mr. van der Luyden and
Sillerton Jackson, he leaned over his wife.
"I've got a beastly headache; don't tell any one, but come home, won't you?" he
May gave him a glance of comprehension, and he saw her whisper to his mother, who
nodded sympathetically; then she murmured an excuse to Mrs. van der Luyden, and rose
from her seat just as Marguerite fell into Faust's arms.
Archer, while he helped her on with her Opera cloak, noticed the exchange of a
significant smile between the older ladies.
As they drove away May laid her hand shyly on his.
"I'm so sorry you don't feel well. I'm afraid they've been overworking you
again at the office."
"No--it's not that: do you mind if I open the window?" he returned confusedly,
letting down the pane on his side.
He sat staring out into the street, feeling his wife beside him as a silent watchful
interrogation, and keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the passing houses.
At their door she caught her skirt in the step of the carriage, and fell against him.
"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, steadying her with his arm.
"No; but my poor dress--see how I've torn it!" she exclaimed.
She bent to gather up a mud-stained breadth, and followed him up the steps into
the hall.
The servants had not expected them so early, and there was only a glimmer of gas
on the upper landing.
Archer mounted the stairs, turned up the light, and put a match to the brackets on
each side of the library mantelpiece.
The curtains were drawn, and the warm friendly aspect of the room smote him like
that of a familiar face met during an unavowable errand.
He noticed that his wife was very pale, and asked if he should get her some brandy.
"Oh, no," she exclaimed with a momentary flush, as she took off her cloak.
"But hadn't you better go to bed at once?" she added, as he opened a silver box on the
table and took out a cigarette. Archer threw down the cigarette and walked
to his usual place by the fire.
"No; my head is not as bad as that." He paused.
"And there's something I want to say; something important--that I must tell you
at once."
She had dropped into an armchair, and raised her head as he spoke.
"Yes, dear?" she rejoined, so gently that he wondered at the lack of wonder with
which she received this preamble.
"May--" he began, standing a few feet from her chair, and looking over at her as if
the slight distance between them were an unbridgeable abyss.
The sound of his voice echoed uncannily through the homelike hush, and he repeated:
"There is something I've got to tell you...about myself..."
She sat silent, without a movement or a tremor of her lashes.
She was still extremely pale, but her face had a curious tranquillity of expression
that seemed drawn from some secret inner source.
Archer checked the conventional phrases of self-accusal that were crowding to his
lips. He was determined to put the case baldly,
without vain recrimination or excuse.
"Madame Olenska--" he said; but at the name his wife raised her hand as if to silence
him. As she did so the gaslight struck on the
gold of her wedding-ring.
"Oh, why should we talk about Ellen tonight?" she asked, with a slight pout of
impatience. "Because I ought to have spoken before."
Her face remained calm.
"Is it really worth while, dear? I know I've been unfair to her at times--
perhaps we all have.
You've understood her, no doubt, better than we did: you've always been kind to
her. But what does it matter, now it's all
Archer looked at her blankly. Could it be possible that the sense of
unreality in which he felt himself imprisoned had communicated itself to his
"All over--what do you mean?" he asked in an indistinct stammer.
May still looked at him with transparent eyes.
"Why--since she's going back to Europe so soon; since Granny approves and
understands, and has arranged to make her independent of her husband--"
She broke off, and Archer, grasping the corner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed
hand, and steadying himself against it, made a vain effort to extend the same
control to his reeling thoughts.
"I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice go on, "that you had been kept at the
office this evening about the business arrangements.
It was settled this morning, I believe."
She lowered her eyes under his unseeing stare, and another fugitive flush passed
over her face.
He understood that his own eyes must be unbearable, and turning away, rested his
elbows on the mantel-shelf and covered his face.
Something drummed and clanged furiously in his ears; he could not tell if it were the
blood in his veins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel.
May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes.
A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back,
Archer at length turned and faced her.
"It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?"
"How do you know--what you've just told me?"
"I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's."
"It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.-
-Do you want to see it?"
He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost
immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply.
She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up.
The letter contained only a few lines.
"May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no
more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever.
She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor
Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to pack
up, and we sail next week.
You must be very good to Granny when I'm gone--as good as you've always been to me.
"If any of my friends wish to urge me to change my mind, please tell them it would
be utterly useless."
Archer read the letter over two or three times; then he flung it down and burst out
laughing. The sound of his laugh startled him.
It recalled Janey's midnight fright when she had caught him rocking with
incomprehensible mirth over May's telegram announcing that the date of their marriage
had been advanced.
"Why did she write this?" he asked, checking his laugh with a supreme effort.
May met the question with her unshaken candour.
"I suppose because we talked things over yesterday--"
"What things?"
"I told her I was afraid I hadn't been fair to her--hadn't always understood how hard
it must have been for her here, alone among so many people who were relations and yet
strangers; who felt the right to criticise,
and yet didn't always know the circumstances."
She paused.
"I knew you'd been the one friend she could always count on; and I wanted her to know
that you and I were the same--in all our feelings."
She hesitated, as if waiting for him to speak, and then added slowly: "She
understood my wishing to tell her this. I think she understands everything."
She went up to Archer, and taking one of his cold hands pressed it quickly against
her cheek.
"My head aches too; good-night, dear," she said, and turned to the door, her torn and
muddy wedding-dress dragging after her across the room.
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton CHAPTER XXXIII.
It was, as Mrs. Archer smilingly said to Mrs. Welland, a great event for a young
couple to give their first big dinner.
The Newland Archers, since they had set up their household, had received a good deal
of company in an informal way.
Archer was fond of having three or four friends to dine, and May welcomed them with
the beaming readiness of which her mother had set her the example in conjugal
Her husband questioned whether, if left to herself, she would ever have asked any one
to the house; but he had long given up trying to disengage her real self from the
shape into which tradition and training had moulded her.
It was expected that well-off young couples in New York should do a good deal of
informal entertaining, and a Welland married to an Archer was doubly pledged to
the tradition.
But a big dinner, with a hired chef and two borrowed footmen, with Roman punch, roses
from Henderson's, and menus on gilt-edged cards, was a different affair, and not to
be lightly undertaken.
As Mrs. Archer remarked, the Roman punch made all the difference; not in itself but
by its manifold implications--since it signified either canvas-backs or terrapin,
two soups, a hot and a cold sweet, full
decolletage with short sleeves, and guests of a proportionate importance.
It was always an interesting occasion when a young pair launched their first
invitations in the third person, and their summons was seldom refused even by the
seasoned and sought-after.
Still, it was admittedly a triumph that the van der Luydens, at May's request, should
have stayed over in order to be present at her farewell dinner for the Countess
The two mothers-in-law sat in May's drawing-room on the afternoon of the great
day, Mrs. Archer writing out the menus on Tiffany's thickest gilt-edged bristol,
while Mrs. Welland superintended the placing of the palms and standard lamps.
Archer, arriving late from his office, found them still there.
Mrs. Archer had turned her attention to the name-cards for the table, and Mrs. Welland
was considering the effect of bringing forward the large gilt sofa, so that
another "corner" might be created between the piano and the window.
May, they told him, was in the dining-room inspecting the mound of Jacqueminot roses
and maidenhair in the centre of the long table, and the placing of the Maillard
bonbons in openwork silver baskets between the candelabra.
On the piano stood a large basket of orchids which Mr. van der Luyden had had
sent from Skuytercliff.
Everything was, in short, as it should be on the approach of so considerable an
Mrs. Archer ran thoughtfully over the list, checking off each name with her sharp gold
"Henry van der Luyden--Louisa--the Lovell Mingotts--the Reggie Chiverses--Lawrence
Lefferts and Gertrude--(yes, I suppose May was right to have them)--the Selfridge
Merrys, Sillerton Jackson, Van Newland and his wife.
(How time passes!
It seems only yesterday that he was your best man, Newland)--and Countess Olenska--
yes, I think that's all...." Mrs. Welland surveyed her son-in-law
"No one can say, Newland, that you and May are not giving Ellen a handsome send-off."
"Ah, well," said Mrs. Archer, "I understand May's wanting her cousin to tell people
abroad that we're not quite barbarians."
"I'm sure Ellen will appreciate it. She was to arrive this morning, I believe.
It will make a most charming last impression.
The evening before sailing is usually so dreary," Mrs. Welland cheerfully continued.
Archer turned toward the door, and his mother-in-law called to him: "Do go in and
have a peep at the table.
And don't let May tire herself too much." But he affected not to hear, and sprang up
the stairs to his library.
The room looked at him like an alien countenance composed into a polite grimace;
and he perceived that it had been ruthlessly "tidied," and prepared, by a
judicious distribution of ash-trays and
cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemen to smoke in.
"Ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long- -" and he went on to his dressing-room.
Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska's departure from New York.
During those ten days Archer had had no sign from her but that conveyed by the
return of a key wrapped in tissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealed envelope
addressed in her hand.
This retort to his last appeal might have been interpreted as a classic move in a
familiar game; but the young man chose to give it a different meaning.
She was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was
not returning to her husband.
Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the
irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she
would not send him away.
This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present.
It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery
and mortification.
It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in
his hands; and he waited.
There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr.
Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the
details of the trust which Mrs. Manson
Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter.
For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all
the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other
than the obvious one of his cousinship; and
that the close of the conference would reveal it.
"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement," Mr. Letterblair had
summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement.
"In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round."
"All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision.
"Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?"
Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch.
"My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French
law. It's to be presumed she knew what that
"Even if she did, what happened subsequently--."
But Archer paused.
Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen-handle against his big corrugated nose, and was
looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they
wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance.
"My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the
other side...
I wouldn't put my hand in the fire...well, that there hadn't been tit for tat...with
the young champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and
pushed a folded paper toward Archer.
"This report, the result of discreet enquiries..."
And then, as Archer made no effort to glance at the paper or to repudiate the
suggestion, the lawyer somewhat flatly continued: "I don't say it's conclusive,
you observe; far from it.
But straws show...and on the whole it's eminently satisfactory for all parties that
this dignified solution has been reached." "Oh, eminently," Archer assented, pushing
back the paper.
A day or two later, on responding to a summons from Mrs. Manson Mingott, his soul
had been more deeply tried. He had found the old lady depressed and
"You know she's deserted me?" she began at once; and without waiting for his reply:
"Oh, don't ask me why! She gave so many reasons that I've
forgotten them all.
My private belief is that she couldn't face the boredom.
At any rate that's what Augusta and my daughters-in-law think.
And I don't know that I altogether blame her.
Olenski's a finished scoundrel; but life with him must have been a good deal gayer
than it is in Fifth Avenue.
Not that the family would admit that: they think Fifth Avenue is Heaven with the rue
de la Paix thrown in. And poor Ellen, of course, has no idea of
going back to her husband.
She held out as firmly as ever against that.
So she's to settle down in Paris with that fool Medora....
Well, Paris is Paris; and you can keep a carriage there on next to nothing.
But she was as gay as a bird, and I shall miss her."
Two tears, the parched tears of the old, rolled down her puffy cheeks and vanished
in the abysses of her bosom. "All I ask is," she concluded, "that they
shouldn't bother me any more.
I must really be allowed to digest my gruel...."
And she twinkled a little wistfully at Archer.
It was that evening, on his return home, that May announced her intention of giving
a farewell dinner to her cousin.
Madame Olenska's name had not been pronounced between them since the night of
her flight to Washington; and Archer looked at his wife with surprise.
"A dinner--why?" he interrogated.
Her colour rose. "But you like Ellen--I thought you'd be
pleased." "It's awfully nice--your putting it in that
But I really don't see--" "I mean to do it, Newland," she said,
quietly rising and going to her desk. "Here are the invitations all written.
Mother helped me--she agrees that we ought to."
She paused, embarrassed and yet smiling, and Archer suddenly saw before him the
embodied image of the Family.
"Oh, all right," he said, staring with unseeing eyes at the list of guests that
she had put in his hand.
When he entered the drawing-room before dinner May was stooping over the fire and
trying to coax the logs to burn in their unaccustomed setting of immaculate tiles.
The tall lamps were all lit, and Mr. van der Luyden's orchids had been conspicuously
disposed in various receptacles of modern porcelain and knobby silver.
Mrs. Newland Archer's drawing-room was generally thought a great success.
A gilt bamboo jardiniere, in which the primulas and cinerarias were punctually
renewed, blocked the access to the bay window (where the old-fashioned would have
preferred a bronze reduction of the Venus
of Milo); the sofas and arm-chairs of pale brocade were cleverly grouped about little
plush tables densely covered with silver toys, porcelain animals and efflorescent
photograph frames; and tall rosy-shaded
lamps shot up like tropical flowers among the palms.
"I don't think Ellen has ever seen this room lighted up," said May, rising flushed
from her struggle, and sending about her a glance of pardonable pride.
The brass tongs which she had propped against the side of the chimney fell with a
crash that drowned her husband's answer; and before he could restore them Mr. and
Mrs. van der Luyden were announced.
The other guests quickly followed, for it was known that the van der Luydens liked to
dine punctually.
The room was nearly full, and Archer was engaged in showing to Mrs. Selfridge Merry
a small highly-varnished Verbeckhoven "Study of Sheep," which Mr. Welland had
given May for Christmas, when he found Madame Olenska at his side.
She was excessively pale, and her pallor made her dark hair seem denser and heavier
than ever.
Perhaps that, or the fact that she had wound several rows of amber beads about her
neck, reminded him suddenly of the little Ellen Mingott he had danced with at
children's parties, when Medora Manson had first brought her to New York.
The amber beads were trying to her complexion, or her dress was perhaps
unbecoming: her face looked lustreless and almost ugly, and he had never loved it as
he did at that minute.
Their hands met, and he thought he heard her say: "Yes, we're sailing tomorrow in
the Russia--"; then there was an unmeaning noise of opening doors, and after an
interval May's voice: "Newland!
Dinner's been announced. Won't you please take Ellen in?"
Madame Olenska put her hand on his arm, and he noticed that the hand was ungloved, and
remembered how he had kept his eyes fixed on it the evening that he had sat with her
in the little Twenty-third Street drawing- room.
All the beauty that had forsaken her face seemed to have taken refuge in the long
pale fingers and faintly dimpled knuckles on his sleeve, and he said to himself: "If
it were only to see her hand again I should have to follow her--."
It was only at an entertainment ostensibly offered to a "foreign visitor" that Mrs.
van der Luyden could suffer the diminution of being placed on her host's left.
The fact of Madame Olenska's "foreignness" could hardly have been more adroitly
emphasised than by this farewell tribute; and Mrs. van der Luyden accepted her
displacement with an affability which left no doubt as to her approval.
There were certain things that had to be done, and if done at all, done handsomely
and thoroughly; and one of these, in the old New York code, was the tribal rally
around a kinswoman about to be eliminated from the tribe.
There was nothing on earth that the Wellands and Mingotts would not have done
to proclaim their unalterable affection for the Countess Olenska now that her passage
for Europe was engaged; and Archer, at the
head of his table, sat marvelling at the silent untiring activity with which her
popularity had been retrieved, grievances against her silenced, her past
countenanced, and her present irradiated by the family approval.
Mrs. van der Luyden shone on her with the dim benevolence which was her nearest
approach to cordiality, and Mr. van der Luyden, from his seat at May's right, cast
down the table glances plainly intended to
justify all the carnations he had sent from Skuytercliff.
Archer, who seemed to be assisting at the scene in a state of odd imponderability, as
if he floated somewhere between chandelier and ceiling, wondered at nothing so much as
his own share in the proceedings.
As his glance travelled from one placid well-fed face to another he saw all the
harmless-looking people engaged upon May's canvas-backs as a band of dumb
conspirators, and himself and the pale
woman on his right as the centre of their conspiracy.
And then it came over him, in a vast flash made up of many broken gleams, that to all
of them he and Madame Olenska were lovers, lovers in the extreme sense peculiar to
"foreign" vocabularies.
He guessed himself to have been, for months, the centre of countless silently
observing eyes and patiently listening ears; he understood that, by means as yet
unknown to him, the separation between
himself and the partner of his guilt had been achieved, and that now the whole tribe
had rallied about his wife on the tacit assumption that nobody knew anything, or
had ever imagined anything, and that the
occasion of the entertainment was simply May Archer's natural desire to take an
affectionate leave of her friend and cousin.
It was the old New York way of taking life "without effusion of blood": the way of
people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage,
and who considered that nothing was more
ill-bred than "scenes," except the behaviour of those who gave rise to them.
As these thoughts succeeded each other in his mind Archer felt like a prisoner in the
centre of an armed camp.
He looked about the table, and guessed at the inexorableness of his captors from the
tone in which, over the asparagus from Florida, they were dealing with Beaufort
and his wife.
"It's to show me," he thought, "what would happen to ME--" and a deathly sense of the
superiority of implication and analogy over direct action, and of silence over rash
words, closed in on him like the doors of the family vault.
He laughed, and met Mrs. van der Luyden's startled eyes.
"You think it laughable?" she said with a pinched smile.
"Of course poor Regina's idea of remaining in New York has its ridiculous side, I
suppose;" and Archer muttered: "Of course."
At this point, he became conscious that Madame Olenska's other neighbour had been
engaged for some time with the lady on his right.
At the same moment he saw that May, serenely enthroned between Mr. van der
Luyden and Mr. Selfridge Merry, had cast a quick glance down the table.
It was evident that the host and the lady on his right could not sit through the
whole meal in silence. He turned to Madame Olenska, and her pale
smile met him.
"Oh, do let's see it through," it seemed to say.
"Did you find the journey tiring?" he asked in a voice that surprised him by its
naturalness; and she answered that, on the contrary, she had seldom travelled with
fewer discomforts.
"Except, you know, the dreadful heat in the train," she added; and he remarked that she
would not suffer from that particular hardship in the country she was going to.
"I never," he declared with intensity, "was more nearly frozen than once, in April, in
the train between Calais and Paris."
She said she did not wonder, but remarked that, after all, one could always carry an
extra rug, and that every form of travel had its hardships; to which he abruptly
returned that he thought them all of no
account compared with the blessedness of getting away.
She changed colour, and he added, his voice suddenly rising in pitch: "I mean to do a
lot of travelling myself before long."
A tremor crossed her face, and leaning over to Reggie Chivers, he cried out: "I say,
Reggie, what do you say to a trip round the world: now, next month, I mean?
I'm game if you are--" at which Mrs. Reggie piped up that she could not think of
letting Reggie go till after the Martha Washington Ball she was getting up for the
Blind Asylum in Easter week; and her
husband placidly observed that by that time he would have to be practising for the
International Polo match.
But Mr. Selfridge Merry had caught the phrase "round the world," and having once
circled the globe in his steam-yacht, he seized the opportunity to send down the
table several striking items concerning the shallowness of the Mediterranean ports.
Though, after all, he added, it didn't matter; for when you'd seen Athens and
Smyrna and Constantinople, what else was there?
And Mrs. Merry said she could never be too grateful to Dr. Bencomb for having made
them promise not to go to Naples on account of the fever.
"But you must have three weeks to do India properly," her husband conceded, anxious to
have it understood that he was no frivolous globe-trotter.
And at this point the ladies went up to the drawing-room.
In the library, in spite of weightier presences, Lawrence Lefferts predominated.
The talk, as usual, had veered around to the Beauforts, and even Mr. van der Luyden
and Mr. Selfridge Merry, installed in the honorary arm-chairs tacitly reserved for
them, paused to listen to the younger man's philippic.
Never had Lefferts so abounded in the sentiments that adorn Christian manhood and
exalt the sanctity of the home.
Indignation lent him a scathing eloquence, and it was clear that if others had
followed his example, and acted as he talked, society would never have been weak
enough to receive a foreign upstart like
Beaufort--no, sir, not even if he'd married a van der Luyden or a Lanning instead of a
And what chance would there have been, Lefferts wrathfully questioned, of his
marrying into such a family as the Dallases, if he had not already wormed his
way into certain houses, as people like
Mrs. Lemuel Struthers had managed to worm theirs in his wake?
If society chose to open its doors to vulgar women the harm was not great, though
the gain was doubtful; but once it got in the way of tolerating men of obscure origin
and tainted wealth the end was total disintegration--and at no distant date.
"If things go on at this pace," Lefferts thundered, looking like a young prophet
dressed by Poole, and who had not yet been stoned, "we shall see our children fighting
for invitations to swindlers' houses, and marrying Beaufort's bastards."
"Oh, I say--draw it mild!"
Reggie Chivers and young Newland protested, while Mr. Selfridge Merry looked genuinely
alarmed, and an expression of pain and disgust settled on Mr. van der Luyden's
sensitive face.
"Has he got any?" cried Mr. Sillerton Jackson, pricking up his ears; and while
Lefferts tried to turn the question with a laugh, the old gentleman twittered into
Archer's ear: "Queer, those fellows who are always wanting to set things right.
The people who have the worst cooks are always telling you they're poisoned when
they dine out.
But I hear there are pressing reasons for our friend Lawrence's diatribe:--typewriter
this time, I understand...."
The talk swept past Archer like some senseless river running and running because
it did not know enough to stop. He saw, on the faces about him, expressions
of interest, amusement and even mirth.
He listened to the younger men's laughter, and to the praise of the Archer Madeira,
which Mr. van der Luyden and Mr. Merry were thoughtfully celebrating.
Through it all he was dimly aware of a general attitude of friendliness toward
himself, as if the guard of the prisoner he felt himself to be were trying to soften
his captivity; and the perception increased his passionate determination to be free.
In the drawing-room, where they presently joined the ladies, he met May's triumphant
eyes, and read in them the conviction that everything had "gone off" beautifully.
She rose from Madame Olenska's side, and immediately Mrs. van der Luyden beckoned
the latter to a seat on the gilt sofa where she throned.
Mrs. Selfridge Merry bore across the room to join them, and it became clear to Archer
that here also a conspiracy of rehabilitation and obliteration was going
The silent organisation which held his little world together was determined to put
itself on record as never for a moment having questioned the propriety of Madame
Olenska's conduct, or the completeness of Archer's domestic felicity.
All these amiable and inexorable persons were resolutely engaged in pretending to
each other that they had never heard of, suspected, or even conceived possible, the
least hint to the contrary; and from this
tissue of elaborate mutual dissimulation Archer once more disengaged the fact that
New York believed him to be Madame Olenska's lover.
He caught the glitter of victory in his wife's eyes, and for the first time
understood that she shared the belief.
The discovery roused a laughter of inner devils that reverberated through all his
efforts to discuss the Martha Washington ball with Mrs. Reggie Chivers and little
Mrs. Newland; and so the evening swept on,
running and running like a senseless river that did not know how to stop.
At length he saw that Madame Olenska had risen and was saying good-bye.
He understood that in a moment she would be gone, and tried to remember what he had
said to her at dinner; but he could not recall a single word they had exchanged.
She went up to May, the rest of the company making a circle about her as she advanced.
The two young women clasped hands; then May bent forward and kissed her cousin.
"Certainly our hostess is much the handsomer of the two," Archer heard Reggie
Chivers say in an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and he remembered Beaufort's
coarse sneer at May's ineffectual beauty.
A moment later he was in the hall, putting Madame Olenska's cloak about her shoulders.
Through all his confusion of mind he had held fast to the resolve to say nothing
that might startle or disturb her.
Convinced that no power could now turn him from his purpose he had found strength to
let events shape themselves as they would.
But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of
being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage.
"Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was
being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear
Ellen home."
Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with
one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said.
"Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him
that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could
Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der
For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim
oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone.
As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife.
Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass.
"I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you
at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick!
"It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the
library. Archer roused himself with a start.
As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and
shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go
straight to her room.
But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who
has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked.
"Of course, if you like.
But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy.
I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair
near the fire.
She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time.
At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's
something I must tell you.
I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly.
"Yes, dear. Something about yourself?"
"About myself.
You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired..."
In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland!
You've been so wickedly overworked--"
"Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--"
"A break? To give up the law?"
"To go away, at any rate--at once.
On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--"
He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference
of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it.
Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated.
"Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far?
Where, for instance?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan."
She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her
warmly and fragrantly hovering over him.
"As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear..." she said
in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you."
And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each
separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the
doctors will let me go...but I'm afraid they won't.
For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so
longing and hoping for--"
He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid
her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him
while his cold hand stroked her hair.
There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then
May freed herself from his arms and stood up.
"You didn't guess--?"
"Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--"
They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his
eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?"
"Only Mamma and your mother."
She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That
is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk
one afternoon--and how dear she was to me."
"Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him
intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first,
"Mind? Why should I?"
He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it?
I thought you said you weren't sure till today."
Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.
"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was.
And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory.
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton CHAPTER XXXIV.
Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street.
He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new
galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded
with the spoils of the ages, where the
throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued
treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory.
"Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and
instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather
divan against a radiator, while a slight
figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old
The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new
eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary
musings and of all the family confabulations.
It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened.
There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing
circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile,
the news that she was to have a child; and
there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in
midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample
magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese.
There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the
nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her
mother), had announced her engagement to
the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had
kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to
carry them to Grace Church--for in a world
where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding"
remained an unchanged institution.
It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the
children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable
indifference to "accomplishments," and
passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had
finally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a rising New York
The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law and business and
taking up all sorts of new things.
If they were not absorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were that
they were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture or landscape-
engineering; taking a keen and learned
interest in the prerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adapting
Georgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word "Colonial."
Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionaire grocers of the
But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in that library that the
Governor of New York, coming down from Albany one evening to dine and spend the
night, had turned to his host, and said,
banging his clenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses: "Hang the
professional politician! You're the kind of man the country wants,
If the stable's ever to be cleaned out, men like you have got to lend a hand in the
cleaning." "Men like you--" how Archer had glowed at
the phrase!
How eagerly he had risen up at the call!
It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appeal to roll his sleeves up and get down into
the muck; but spoken by a man who set the example of the gesture, and whose summons
to follow him was irresistible.
Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself WERE what his country
needed, at least in the active service to which Theodore Roosevelt had pointed; in
fact, there was reason to think it did not,
for after a year in the State Assembly he had not been re-elected, and had dropped
back thankfully into obscure if useful municipal work, and from that again to the
writing of occasional articles in one of
the reforming weeklies that were trying to shake the country out of its apathy.
It was little enough to look back on; but when he remembered to what the young men of
his generation and his set had looked forward--the narrow groove of money-making,
sport and society to which their vision had
been limited--even his small contribution to the new state of things seemed to count,
as each brick counts in a well-built wall.
He had done little in public life; he would always be by nature a contemplative and a
dilettante; but he had had high things to contemplate, great things to delight in;
and one great man's friendship to be his strength and pride.
He had been, in short, what people were beginning to call "a good citizen."
In New York, for many years past, every new movement, philanthropic, municipal or
artistic, had taken account of his opinion and wanted his name.
People said: "Ask Archer" when there was a question of starting the first school for
crippled children, reorganising the Museum of Art, founding the Grolier Club,
inaugurating the new Library, or getting up a new society of chamber music.
His days were full, and they were filled decently.
He supposed it was all a man ought to ask.
Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life.
But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have
repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize
in a lottery.
There were a hundred million tickets in HIS lottery, and there was only one prize; the
chances had been too decidedly against him.
When he thought of Ellen Olenska it was abstractly, serenely, as one might think of
some imaginary beloved in a book or a picture: she had become the composite
vision of all that he had missed.
That vision, faint and tenuous as it was, had kept him from thinking of other women.
He had been what was called a faithful husband; and when May had suddenly died--
carried off by the infectious pneumonia through which she had nursed their youngest
child--he had honestly mourned her.
Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage
was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty: lapsing from that, it
became a mere battle of ugly appetites.
Looking about him, he honoured his own past, and mourned for it.
After all, there was good in the old ways.
His eyes, making the round of the room-- done over by Dallas with English
mezzotints, Chippendale cabinets, bits of chosen blue-and-white and pleasantly shaded
electric lamps--came back to the old
Eastlake writing-table that he had never been willing to banish, and to his first
photograph of May, which still kept its place beside his inkstand.
There she was, tall, round-bosomed and willowy, in her starched muslin and
flapping Leghorn, as he had seen her under the orange-trees in the Mission garden.
And as he had seen her that day, so she had remained; never quite at the same height,
yet never far below it: generous, faithful, unwearied; but so lacking in imagination,
so incapable of growth, that the world of
her youth had fallen into pieces and rebuilt itself without her ever being
conscious of the change. This hard bright blindness had kept her
immediate horizon apparently unaltered.
Her incapacity to recognise change made her children conceal their views from her as
Archer concealed his; there had been, from the first, a joint pretence of sameness, a
kind of innocent family hypocrisy, in which
father and children had unconsciously collaborated.
And she had died thinking the world a good place, full of loving and harmonious
households like her own, and resigned to leave it because she was convinced that,
whatever happened, Newland would continue
to inculcate in Dallas the same principles and prejudices which had shaped his
parents' lives, and that Dallas in turn (when Newland followed her) would transmit
the sacred trust to little Bill.
And of Mary she was sure as of her own self.
So, having snatched little Bill from the grave, and given her life in the effort,
she went contentedly to her place in the Archer vault in St. Mark's, where Mrs.
Archer already lay safe from the terrifying
"trend" which her daughter-in-law had never even become aware of.
Opposite May's portrait stood one of her daughter.
Mary Chivers was as tall and fair as her mother, but large-waisted, flat-chested and
slightly slouching, as the altered fashion required.
Mary Chivers's mighty feats of athleticism could not have been performed with the
twenty-inch waist that May Archer's azure sash so easily spanned.
And the difference seemed symbolic; the mother's life had been as closely girt as
her figure.
Mary, who was no less conventional, and no more intelligent, yet led a larger life and
held more tolerant views. There was good in the new order too.
The telephone clicked, and Archer, turning from the photographs, unhooked the
transmitter at his elbow.
How far they were from the days when the legs of the brass-buttoned messenger boy
had been New York's only means of quick communication!
"Chicago wants you."
Ah--it must be a long-distance from Dallas, who had been sent to Chicago by his firm to
talk over the plan of the Lakeside palace they were to build for a young millionaire
with ideas.
The firm always sent Dallas on such errands.
"Hallo, Dad--Yes: Dallas. I say--how do you feel about sailing on
Mauretania: Yes, next Wednesday as ever is. Our client wants me to look at some Italian
gardens before we settle anything, and has asked me to nip over on the next boat.
I've got to be back on the first of June--" the voice broke into a joyful conscious
laugh--"so we must look alive. I say, Dad, I want your help: do come."
Dallas seemed to be speaking in the room: the voice was as near by and natural as if
he had been lounging in his favourite arm- chair by the fire.
The fact would not ordinarily have surprised Archer, for long-distance
telephoning had become as much a matter of course as electric lighting and five-day
Atlantic voyages.
But the laugh did startle him; it still seemed wonderful that across all those
miles and miles of country--forest, river, mountain, prairie, roaring cities and busy
indifferent millions--Dallas's laugh should
be able to say: "Of course, whatever happens, I must get back on the first,
because Fanny Beaufort and I are to be married on the fifth."
The voice began again: "Think it over?
No, sir: not a minute. You've got to say yes now.
Why not, I'd like to know? If you can allege a single reason--No; I
knew it.
Then it's a go, eh? Because I count on you to ring up the
Cunard office first thing tomorrow; and you'd better book a return on a boat from
I say, Dad; it'll be our last time together, in this kind of way--.
Oh, good! I knew you would."
Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began to pace up and down the room.
It would be their last time together in this kind of way: the boy was right.
They would have lots of other "times" after Dallas's marriage, his father was sure; for
the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort, whatever one might think of her,
did not seem likely to interfere with their intimacy.
On the contrary, from what he had seen of her, he thought she would be naturally
included in it.
Still, change was change, and differences were differences, and much as he felt
himself drawn toward his future daughter- in-law, it was tempting to seize this last
chance of being alone with his boy.
There was no reason why he should not seize it, except the profound one that he had
lost the habit of travel.
May had disliked to move except for valid reasons, such as taking the children to the
sea or in the mountains: she could imagine no other motive for leaving the house in
Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quarters at the Wellands' in Newport.
After Dallas had taken his degree she had thought it her duty to travel for six
months; and the whole family had made the old-fashioned tour through England,
Switzerland and Italy.
Their time being limited (no one knew why) they had omitted France.
Archer remembered Dallas's wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blanc instead of
Rheims and Chartres.
But Mary and Bill wanted mountain-climbing, and had already yawned their way in
Dallas's wake through the English cathedrals; and May, always fair to her
children, had insisted on holding the
balance evenly between their athletic and artistic proclivities.
She had indeed proposed that her husband should go to Paris for a fortnight, and
join them on the Italian lakes after they had "done" Switzerland; but Archer had
"We'll stick together," he said; and May's face had brightened at his setting such a
good example to Dallas.
Since her death, nearly two years before, there had been no reason for his continuing
in the same routine.
His children had urged him to travel: Mary Chivers had felt sure it would do him good
to go abroad and "see the galleries." The very mysteriousness of such a cure made
her the more confident of its efficacy.
But Archer had found himself held fast by habit, by memories, by a sudden startled
shrinking from new things. Now, as he reviewed his past, he saw into
what a deep rut he had sunk.
The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything
else. At least that was the view that the men of
his generation had taken.
The trenchant divisions between right and wrong, honest and dishonest, respectable
and the reverse, had left so little scope for the unforeseen.
There are moments when a man's imagination, so easily subdued to what it lives in,
suddenly rises above its daily level, and surveys the long windings of destiny.
Archer hung there and wondered....
What was left of the little world he had grown up in, and whose standards had bent
and bound him?
He remembered a sneering prophecy of poor Lawrence Lefferts's, uttered years ago in
that very room: "If things go on at this rate, our children will be marrying
Beaufort's bastards."
It was just what Archer's eldest son, the pride of his life, was doing; and nobody
wondered or reproved.
Even the boy's Aunt Janey, who still looked so exactly as she used to in her elderly
youth, had taken her mother's emeralds and seed-pearls out of their pink cotton-wool,
and carried them with her own twitching
hands to the future bride; and Fanny Beaufort, instead of looking disappointed
at not receiving a "set" from a Paris jeweller, had exclaimed at their old-
fashioned beauty, and declared that when
she wore them she should feel like an Isabey miniature.
Fanny Beaufort, who had appeared in New York at eighteen, after the death of her
parents, had won its heart much as Madame Olenska had won it thirty years earlier;
only instead of being distrustful and
afraid of her, society took her joyfully for granted.
She was pretty, amusing and accomplished: what more did any one want?
Nobody was narrow-minded enough to rake up against her the half-forgotten facts of her
father's past and her own origin.
Only the older people remembered so obscure an incident in the business life of New
York as Beaufort's failure, or the fact that after his wife's death he had been
quietly married to the notorious Fanny
Ring, and had left the country with his new wife, and a little girl who inherited her
He was subsequently heard of in Constantinople, then in Russia; and a dozen
years later American travellers were handsomely entertained by him in Buenos
Ayres, where he represented a large insurance agency.
He and his wife died there in the odour of prosperity; and one day their orphaned
daughter had appeared in New York in charge of May Archer's sister-in-law, Mrs. Jack
Welland, whose husband had been appointed the girl's guardian.
The fact threw her into almost cousinly relationship with Newland Archer's
children, and nobody was surprised when Dallas's engagement was announced.
Nothing could more dearly give the measure of the distance that the world had
People nowadays were too busy--busy with reforms and "movements," with fads and
fetishes and frivolities--to bother much about their neighbours.
And of what account was anybody's past, in the huge kaleidoscope where all the social
atoms spun around on the same plane?
Newland Archer, looking out of his hotel window at the stately gaiety of the Paris
streets, felt his heart beating with the confusion and eagerness of youth.
It was long since it had thus plunged and reared under his widening waistcoat,
leaving him, the next minute, with an empty breast and hot temples.
He wondered if it was thus that his son's conducted itself in the presence of Miss
Fanny Beaufort--and decided that it was not.
"It functions as actively, no doubt, but the rhythm is different," he reflected,
recalling the cool composure with which the young man had announced his engagement, and
taken for granted that his family would approve.
"The difference is that these young people take it for granted that they're going to
get whatever they want, and that we almost always took it for granted that we
Only, I wonder--the thing one's so certain of in advance: can it ever make one's heart
beat as wildly?"
It was the day after their arrival in Paris, and the spring sunshine held Archer
in his open window, above the wide silvery prospect of the Place Vendome.
One of the things he had stipulated--almost the only one--when he had agreed to come
abroad with Dallas, was that, in Paris, he shouldn't be made to go to one of the
newfangled "palaces."
"Oh, all right--of course," Dallas good- naturedly agreed.
"I'll take you to some jolly old-fashioned place--the Bristol say--" leaving his
father speechless at hearing that the century-long home of kings and emperors was
now spoken of as an old-fashioned inn,
where one went for its quaint inconveniences and lingering local colour.
Archer had pictured often enough, in the first impatient years, the scene of his
return to Paris; then the personal vision had faded, and he had simply tried to see
the city as the setting of Madame Olenska's life.
Sitting alone at night in his library, after the household had gone to bed, he had
evoked the radiant outbreak of spring down the avenues of horse-chestnuts, the flowers
and statues in the public gardens, the
whiff of lilacs from the flower-carts, the majestic roll of the river under the great
bridges, and the life of art and study and pleasure that filled each mighty artery to
Now the spectacle was before him in its glory, and as he looked out on it he felt
shy, old-fashioned, inadequate: a mere grey speck of a man compared with the ruthless
magnificent fellow he had dreamed of being....
Dallas's hand came down cheerily on his shoulder.
"Hullo, father: this is something like, isn't it?"
They stood for a while looking out in silence, and then the young man continued:
"By the way, I've got a message for you: the Countess Olenska expects us both at
half-past five."
He said it lightly, carelessly, as he might have imparted any casual item of
information, such as the hour at which their train was to leave for Florence the
next evening.
Archer looked at him, and thought he saw in his gay young eyes a gleam of his great-
grandmother Mingott's malice. "Oh, didn't I tell you?"
Dallas pursued.
"Fanny made me swear to do three things while I was in Paris: get her the score of
the last Debussy songs, go to the Grand- Guignol and see Madame Olenska.
You know she was awfully good to Fanny when Mr. Beaufort sent her over from Buenos
Ayres to the Assomption.
Fanny hadn't any friends in Paris, and Madame Olenska used to be kind to her and
trot her about on holidays. I believe she was a great friend of the
first Mrs. Beaufort's.
And she's our cousin, of course. So I rang her up this morning, before I
went out, and told her you and I were here for two days and wanted to see her."
Archer continued to stare at him.
"You told her I was here?" "Of course--why not?"
Dallas's eye brows went up whimsically.
Then, getting no answer, he slipped his arm through his father's with a confidential
pressure. "I say, father: what was she like?"
Archer felt his colour rise under his son's unabashed gaze.
"Come, own up: you and she were great pals, weren't you?
Wasn't she most awfully lovely?"
"Lovely? I don't know.
She was different." "Ah--there you have it!
That's what it always comes to, doesn't it?
When she comes, SHE'S DIFFERENT--and one doesn't know why.
It's exactly what I feel about Fanny." His father drew back a step, releasing his
"About Fanny? But, my dear fellow--I should hope so!
Only I don't see--" "Dash it, Dad, don't be prehistoric!
Wasn't she--once--your Fanny?"
Dallas belonged body and soul to the new generation.
He was the first-born of Newland and May Archer, yet it had never been possible to
inculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve.
"What's the use of making mysteries?
It only makes people want to nose 'em out," he always objected when enjoined to
discretion. But Archer, meeting his eyes, saw the
filial light under their banter.
"My Fanny?" "Well, the woman you'd have chucked
everything for: only you didn't," continued his surprising son.
"I didn't," echoed Archer with a kind of solemnity.
"No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But mother said--"
"Your mother?"
"Yes: the day before she died. It was when she sent for me alone--you
She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she
asked you to, you'd given up the thing you most wanted."
Archer received this strange communication in silence.
His eyes remained unseeingly fixed on the thronged sunlit square below the window.
At length he said in a low voice: "She never asked me."
"No. I forgot. You never did ask each other anything, did
And you never told each other anything. You just sat and watched each other, and
guessed at what was going on underneath. A deaf-and-dumb asylum, in fact!
Well, I back your generation for knowing more about each other's private thoughts
than we ever have time to find out about our own.--I say, Dad," Dallas broke off,
"you're not angry with me?
If you are, let's make it up and go and lunch at Henri's.
I've got to rush out to Versailles afterward."
Archer did not accompany his son to Versailles.
He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris.
He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an
inarticulate lifetime. After a little while he did not regret
Dallas's indiscretion.
It seemed to take an iron band from his heart to know that, after all, some one had
guessed and pitied.... And that it should have been his wife moved
him indescribably.
Dallas, for all his affectionate insight, would not have understood that.
To the boy, no doubt, the episode was only a pathetic instance of vain frustration, of
wasted forces.
But was it really no more? For a long time Archer sat on a bench in
the Champs Elysees and wondered, while the stream of life rolled by....
A few streets away, a few hours away, Ellen Olenska waited.
She had never gone back to her husband, and when he had died, some years before, she
had made no change in her way of living.
There was nothing now to keep her and Archer apart--and that afternoon he was to
see her.
He got up and walked across the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries gardens to the
She had once told him that she often went there, and he had a fancy to spend the
intervening time in a place where he could think of her as perhaps having lately been.
For an hour or more he wandered from gallery to gallery through the dazzle of
afternoon light, and one by one the pictures burst on him in their half-
forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty.
After all, his life had been too starved....
Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "But I'm only fifty-
seven--" and then he turned away.
For such summer dreams it was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of
friendship, of comradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness.
He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; and together they
walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over the bridge that leads to
the Chamber of Deputies.
Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, was talking excitedly
and abundantly of Versailles.
He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried
to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to
Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and
cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips.
As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased.
The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence
that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.
"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about," he mused, thinking
of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old
landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal.
Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm.
"Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed.
They had come out into the great tree- planted space before the Invalides.
The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey
front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it
hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory.
Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating
from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure,
forgetting the central splendour that lit it up.
Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the
pervading illumination in which she lived.
For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent
in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too
stimulating for his lungs.
He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked
at, the sober and splendid old houses she must have frequented, the people she must
have talked with, the incessant stir of
ideas, curiosities, images and associations thrown out by an intensely social race in a
setting of immemorial manners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had
once said to him: "Ah, good conversation-- there is nothing like it, is there?"
Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirty years; and that fact
gave the measure of his ignorance of Madame Olenska's existence.
More than half a lifetime divided them, and she had spent the long interval among
people he did not know, in a society he but faintly guessed at, in conditions he would
never wholly understand.
During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; but she had
doubtless had other and more tangible companionship.
Perhaps she too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had, it must
have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray
every day....
They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the
thoroughfares flanking the building.
It was a quiet quarter, after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the
fact gave one an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes as this
were left to the few and the indifferent.
The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and there by a yellow
electric light, and passers were rare in the little square into which they had
Dallas stopped again, and looked up.
"It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father's with a movement
from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and they stood together looking up at the
It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed,
and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream- coloured front.
On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the rounded tops of the horse-
chestnuts in the square, the awnings were still lowered, as though the sun had just
left it.
"I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the
porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The
It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the
upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained.
"I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him.
The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees.
"I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said.
"Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly.
But I should like you, please, to go up without me."
Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered.
"But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?"
"I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand."
"Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you."
Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight.
"But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what
to say?" his father rejoined with a smile.
"Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and
prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts."
His father smiled again.
"Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough." Dallas looked at him again, and then, with
an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway.
Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony.
He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the
fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into
the drawing-room.
He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful
smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after
Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable
hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who
would look up quickly, half rise, and hold
out a long thin hand with three rings on it....
He thought she would be sitting in a sofa- corner near the fire, with azaleas banked
behind her on a table.
"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the
fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his
seat as the minutes succeeded each other.
He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning
from the balcony.
At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant
came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters.
At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly
and walked back alone to his hotel.