Age of Innocence (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (47 page)

“No. I forgot. You never did ask each other anything, did you? 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, someone 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 Élysées 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 Louvre. 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 splendor, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. After all, his life had been too starved ...

Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian,
^ax
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
^ay
floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long gray front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, that hung there like a 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 splendor 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 theaters she must have been to, the pic tures 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. Rivière, 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 splendor 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 turned. 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 house.

It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-colored 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-cochère
he put his head into the porter’s lodge, and came back to say: “The fifth. 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 high delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy “took after him.”

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.

1
(p. 8)
“We’ll read
Faust
together ... by the Italian lakes ... ” he thought:
Edith Wharton was acquainted not only with Gounod’s opera of the Faust legend but also with the epic poetic drama by Johann von Goethe (1749-1832) in which Faust, an aging intellectual, makes a contract with the devil, Mephistopheles, to procure immortality. Wharton knew German and copied passages by Goethe into her notebook (unpublished), translating some verses. Her use of the opera in
The Age of Innocence
not only reproduces the fashion of the day but provides a contrast between Faust’s contract and Newland’s honor and, at the end of the novel, his aging. In the opera, when Faust’s lover, Marguerite, becomes pregnant, he runs off. For Newland Archer, May’s announcement of the coming child seals his fate.

2
(p. 13)
like her Imperial namesake, she had won her way to success by strength of will:
This passage displays Catherine Mingott’s free spirit in her acquaintance with singers and dancers of note, with European nobility, and even with Catholics. Wharton allies her with Ellen Olenska, Medora Manson, Mrs. Struthers, Ned Winsett—characters in the novel who are not bound by convention. Like Catherine the Great (1729-1796), the powerful Empress with a flamboyant sexual nature, Catherine Mingott has been a patron of the arts, but she never shared in the Czarina’s sexual spirit. Throughout the novel, Wharton sets up opposing camps of those who are relatively free of social constraint and those who live strictly by the rules of old New York.

3
(p. 30)
Mrs. Archer, who had long been a widow, lived with her son and daughter... Bulwer—who, however, was beginning to be thought old-fashioned):
In this paragraph, Wharton describes the genteel taste of Archer’s family, always ordinary and safe. A Wardian case was a glass apparatus for raising plants;
Good Words,
an English periodical; Ouida’s novels, the popular works of Marie de la Ramée (1839-1908). The family’s preference for the historical novels of Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873) over those of Charles Dickens and W. M. Thackeray reveals a humorless streak. Wharton read voraciously in English, French, German, and Italian. The literary references in the novel are carefully chosen to reflect the various characters. Newland is a gentleman reader who takes pleasure and refuge in his library. His reading list comes close to Wharton’s own in her reconstruction of the fashionable literature of the 1870s. At the outset of the novel, we learn that he does not admire Dickens or Thackeray, though her rendering of society brings to mind their comic vein, particularly Thackeray’s
Vanity Fair.
The difference between Wharton and Newland lies in his being tagged a dilettante, while throughout the novel she demonstrates with wit and brilliance the usefulness of her reading.

4
(p. 37)
“Women should be free
—
as free as we are”:
The question of women’s freedom runs throughout the novel. Here Newland’s exclamation is provoked by the “case of the Countess Olenska.” Ellen’s marriage to the Polish count was a complicated morganatic marriage. However, the ideal of freedom for women, like much of Newland Archer’s right thinking, remains rhetorical. According to
Black’s Law Dictionary
(1891), morganatic marriage is “a lawful and inseparable conjunction of a man of noble and illustrious birth, with a woman of inferior station, upon condition that neither the wife nor her children shall partake of the titles, arms or dignity of the husband, or succeed to his inheritance.... The marriage ceremony was regularly performed, the union was indisoluable.” (The article is signed “Wharton,” an amusing coincidence.)