The Age of Innocence, Chapter 29

歌手： Edith Wharton • 专辑：The Age of Innocence (unabridged) • 发布时间：2017-01-27 
Nastasia opened the door,
smiling mysteriously.
On the bench in the hall lay a sable-lined overcoat,
a folded opera hat of dull silk
with a gold J. B. on the lining,
and a white silk muffler:
there was no mistaking the fact that these costly articles
were the property of Julius Beaufort.

Archer was angry:
so angry that he came near scribbling a word on his card and going away;
then he remembered that in writing to Madame Olenska
he had been kept by excess of discretion
from saying that he wished to see her privately.
He had therefore no one but himself to blame
if she had opened her doors to other visitors;
and he entered the drawing-room with the dogged determination
to make Beaufort feel himself in the way,
and to outstay him.

The banker stood leaning against the mantelshelf,
which was draped with an old embroidery
held in place by brass candelabra
containing church candles of yellowish wax.
He had thrust his chest out,
supporting his shoulders against the mantel
and resting his weight on one large patent-leather foot.
As Archer entered
he was smiling and looking down on his hostess,
who sat on a sofa placed at right angles to the chimney.
A table banked with flowers
formed a screen behind it,
and against the orchids and azaleas which the young man recognised
as tributes from the Beaufort hot-houses,
Madame Olenska sat half-reclined,
her head propped on a hand
and her wide sleeve leaving the arm bare to the elbow.

It was usual for ladies who received in the evenings to wear
what were called “simple dinner dresses”:
a close-fitting armour of whale-boned silk,
slightly open in the neck,
with lace ruffles filling in the crack,
and tight sleeves with a flounce
uncovering just enough wrist
to show an Etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band.
But Madame Olenska, heedless of tradition,
was attired in a long robe of red velvet
bordered about the chin and down the front with glossy black fur.
Archer remembered, on his last visit to Paris,
seeing a portrait by the new painter, Carolus Duran,
whose pictures were the sensation of the Salon,
in which the lady wore one of these bold sheath-like robes
with her chin nestling in fur.
There was something perverse and provocative in the notion of fur worn in the evening in a heated drawing-room,
and in the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms;
but the effect was undeniably pleasing.

“Lord love us—
three whole days at Skuytercliff!”
Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered.
“You’d better take all your furs,
and a hot-water-bottle.”

“Why? Is the house so cold?”
she asked,
holding out her left hand to Archer
in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it.

“No; but the missus is,”
said Beaufort,
nodding carelessly to the young man.

“But I thought her so kind.
She came herself to invite me.
Granny says I must certainly go.”

“Granny would, of course.
And I say it’s a shame you’re going to miss the little oyster supper I’d planned for you at Delmonico’s next Sunday,
with Campanini and Scalchi
and a lot of jolly people.”

She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer.

“Ah—that does tempt me!
Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers’s
I’ve not met a single artist since I’ve been here.”

“What kind of artists?
I know one or two painters,
very good fellows,
that I could bring to see you if you’d allow me,”
said Archer boldly.

“Painters? Are there painters in New York?”
asked Beaufort,
in a tone implying
that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures;
and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile:
“That would be charming.
But I was really thinking of dramatic artists,
singers, actors, musicians.
My husband’s house was always full of them.”

She said the words “my husband”
as if no sinister associations were connected with them,
and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life.
Archer looked at her perplexedly,
wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation
that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it.

“I do think,”
she went on, addressing both men,
“that the imprévu adds to one’s enjoyment.
It’s perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day.”

“It’s confoundedly dull, anyhow;
New York is dying of dulness,”
Beaufort grumbled.
“And when I try to liven it up for you,
you go back on me.
Come—think better of it!
Sunday is your last chance,
for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia;
and I’ve a private room, and a Steinway,
and they’ll sing all night for me.”

“How delicious!
May I think it over,
and write to you tomorrow morning?”

She spoke amiably,
yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice.
Beaufort evidently felt it,
and being unused to dismissals,
stood staring at her
with an obstinate line between his eyes.

“Why not now?”

“It’s too serious a question to decide at this late hour.”

“Do you call it late?”

She returned his glance coolly.
“Yes;
because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while.”

“Ah,” Beaufort snapped.
There was no appeal from her tone,
and with a slight shrug
he recovered his composure,
took her hand,
which he kissed with a practised air,
and calling out from the threshold:
“I say, Newland,
if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town
of course you’re included in the supper,”
left the room with his heavy important step.

For a moment
Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming;
but the irrelevance of her next remark
made him change his mind.

“You know painters, then?
You live in their milieu?”
she asked, her eyes full of interest.

“Oh, not exactly;
I don’t know that the arts have a milieu here,
any of them;
they’re more like a very thinly settled outskirt.”

“But you care for such things?”

“Immensely.
When I’m in Paris or London
I never miss an exhibition.
I try to keep up.”

She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies.

“I used to care immensely too:
my life was full of such things.
But now I want to try not to.”
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