The Age of Innocence, Chapter 20

歌手： Edith Wharton • 专辑：The Age of Innocence (unabridged) • 发布时间：2017-01-27 
and perhaps, also, his powers of observation were impaired by the oddness
of finding himself in this strange empty house,
where apparently no one expected him.
He was sorry that he had not told May Welland of Countess Olenska’s request,
and a little disturbed
by the thought that his betrothed might come in to see her cousin.
What would she think if she found him sitting there with the air of intimacy implied
by waiting alone in the dusk at a lady’s fireside?

But since he had come he meant to wait;
and he sank into a chair
and stretched his feet to the logs.

It was odd to have summoned him in that way, and then forgotten him;
but Archer felt more curious than mortified.
The atmosphere of the room was so different from any he had ever breathed
that self-consciousness vanished in the sense of adventure.
He had been before in drawing-rooms hung with red damask, with pictures “of the Italian school”;
what struck him was the way
in which Medora Manson’s shabby hired house, with its blighted background of pampas grass and Rogers statuettes,
had, by a turn of the hand, and the skilful use of a few properties,
been transformed into something intimate, “foreign,”
subtly suggestive of old romantic scenes and sentiments.
He tried to analyse the trick,
to find a clue to it
in the way the chairs and tables were grouped,
in the fact that only two Jacqueminot roses
(of which nobody ever bought less than a dozen) had been placed in the slender vase at his elbow,
and in the vague pervading perfume
that was not what one put on handkerchiefs,
but rather like the scent of some far-off bazaar,
a smell made up of Turkish coffee and ambergris and dried roses.

His mind wandered away to the question of what May’s drawing-room would look like.
He knew that Mr. Welland, who was behaving “very handsomely,”
already had his eye on a newly built house in East Thirty-ninth Street.
The neighbourhood was thought remote,
and the house was built in a ghastly greenish-yellow stone
that the younger architects were beginning to employ as a protest against
the brownstone of which the uniform hue coated New York like a cold chocolate sauce;
but the plumbing was perfect.
Archer would have liked to travel,
to put off the housing question;
but, though the Wellands approved of an extended European honeymoon
(perhaps even a winter in Egypt),
they were firm as to the need of a house for the returning couple.
The young man felt that his fate was sealed:
for the rest of his life he would go up every evening
between the cast-iron railings of that greenish-yellow doorstep,
and pass through a Pompeian vestibule
into a hall with a wainscoting of varnished yellow wood.
But beyond that his imagination could not travel.
He knew the drawing-room above had a bay window,
but he could not fancy how May would deal with it.
She submitted cheerfully
to the purple satin and yellow tuftings of the Welland drawing-room,
to its sham Buhl tables
and gilt vitrines full of modern Saxe.
He saw no reason to suppose
that she would want anything different in her own house;
and his only comfort was to reflect that she would probably
let him arrange his library as he pleased—
which would be, of course, with “sincere” Eastlake furniture,
and the plain new book-cases without glass doors.

The round-bosomed maid came in,
drew the curtains,
pushed back a log,
and said consolingly:
“Verrà—verrà.”
When she had gone
Archer stood up
and began to wander about.
Should he wait any longer?
His position was becoming rather foolish.
Perhaps he had misunderstood Madame Olenska—
perhaps she had not invited him after all.

Down the cobblestones of the quiet street
came the ring of a stepper’s hoofs;
they stopped before the house,
and he caught the opening of a carriage door.
Parting the curtains
he looked out into the early dusk.
A street-lamp faced him,
and in its light he saw Julius Beaufort’s compact English brougham,
drawn by a big roan,
and the banker descending from it, and helping out Madame Olenska.

Beaufort stood,
hat in hand, saying something
which his companion seemed to negative;
then they shook hands,
and he jumped into his carriage
while she mounted the steps.

When she entered the room
she showed no surprise at seeing Archer there;
surprise seemed the emotion that she was least addicted to.

“How do you like my funny house?”
she asked.
“To me it’s like heaven.”

As she spoke she untied her little velvet bonnet
and tossing it away with her long cloak
stood looking at him; with meditative eyes.

“You’ve arranged it delightfully,”
he rejoined,
alive to the flatness of the words,
but imprisoned in the conventional by his consuming desire to be simple and striking.

“Oh, it’s a poor little place.
My relations despise it.
But at any rate
it’s less gloomy than the van der Luydens’.”

The words gave him an electric shock,
for few were the rebellious spirits who would have dared
to call the stately home of the van der Luydens gloomy.
Those privileged to enter it shivered there,
and spoke of it as “handsome.”
But suddenly
he was glad that she had given voice to the general shiver.

“It’s delicious—what you’ve done here,”
he repeated.

“I like the little house,”
she admitted;
“but I suppose
what I like is the blessedness of its being here,
in my own country and my own town;
and then, of being alone in it.”
She spoke so low
that he hardly heard the last phrase;
but in his awkwardness he took it up.

“You like so much to be alone?”

“Yes; as long as my friends keep me from feeling lonely.”
She sat down near the fire, said:
“Nastasia will bring the tea presently,”
and signed to him to return to his armchair, adding:
“I see you’ve already chosen your corner.”
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