The Age of Innocence, Chapter 33

歌手： Edith Wharton • 专辑：The Age of Innocence (unabridged) • 发布时间：2017-01-27 
Only the day before he had received a letter from May Welland
in which, with characteristic candour,
she had asked him to “be kind to Ellen” in their absence.
“She likes you and admires you so much—
and you know,
though she doesn’t show it,
she’s still very lonely and unhappy.
I don’t think Granny understands her,
or uncle Lovell Mingott either;
they really think
she’s much worldlier and fonder of society than she is.
And I can quite see
that New York must seem dull to her,
though the family won’t admit it.
I think she’s been used to lots of things we haven’t got;
wonderful music, and picture shows,
and celebrities—
artists and authors
and all the clever people you admire.
Granny can’t understand her wanting anything
but lots of dinners and clothes—
but I can see
that you’re almost the only person in New York
who can talk to her about what she really cares for.”

His wise May—
how he had loved her for that letter!
But he had not meant to act on it;
he was too busy, to begin with,
and he did not care, as an engaged man,
to play too conspicuously the part of Madame Olenska’s champion.
He had an idea
that she knew how to take care of herself
a good deal better than the ingenuous May imagined.
She had Beaufort at her feet,
Mr. van der Luyden hovering above her like a protecting deity,
and any number of candidates
(Lawrence Lefferts among them)
waiting their opportunity in the middle distance.
Yet he never saw her,
or exchanged a word with her, without feeling that,
after all, May’s ingenuousness
almost amounted to a gift of divination.
Ellen Olenska was lonely and she was unhappy.

End of Chapter 13

The AGE of INNOCENCE

BY EDITH WHARTON

BOOK I

Chapter 14

As he came out into the lobby
Archer ran across his friend Ned Winsett,
the only one among what Janey called his “clever people”
with whom he cared to probe into things
a little deeper than the average level of club and chop-house banter.

He had caught sight, across the house,
of Winsett’s shabby round-shouldered back,
and had once noticed his eyes turned toward the Beaufort box.
The two men shook hands,
and Winsett proposed a bock at a little German restaurant around the corner.
Archer, who was not in the mood for the kind of talk they were likely to get there,
declined on the plea that he had work to do at home;
and Winsett said:
“Oh, well so have I for that matter,
and I’ll be the Industrious Apprentice too.”

They strolled along together,
and presently Winsett said:
“Look here,
what I’m really after
is the name of the dark lady in that swell box of yours—
with the Beauforts, wasn’t she?
The one your friend Lefferts seems so smitten by.”

Archer, he could not have said why, was slightly annoyed.
What the devil did Ned Winsett want with Ellen Olenska’s name?
And above all, why did he couple it with Lefferts’s?
It was unlike Winsett to manifest such curiosity;
but after all, Archer remembered, he was a journalist.

“It’s not for an interview, I hope?”
he laughed.

“Well—
not for the press; just for myself,”
Winsett rejoined.
“The fact is she’s a neighbour of mine—
queer quarter for such a beauty to settle in—
and she’s been awfully kind to my little boy,
who fell down her area chasing his kitten,
and gave himself a nasty cut.
She rushed in bareheaded,
carrying him in her arms,
with his knee all beautifully bandaged,
and was so sympathetic and beautiful
that my wife was too dazzled to ask her name.”

A pleasant glow dilated Archer’s heart.
There was nothing extraordinary in the tale:
any woman would have done as much for a neighbour’s child.
But it was just like Ellen, he felt,
to have rushed in bareheaded,
carrying the boy in her arms,
and to have dazzled poor Mrs. Winsett
into forgetting to ask who she was.

“That is the Countess Olenska—
a granddaughter of old Mrs. Mingott’s.”

“Whew—a Countess!”
whistled Ned Winsett.
“Well, I didn’t know Countesses were so neighbourly.
Mingotts ain’t.”

“They would be, if you’d let them.”

“Ah, well—”
It was their old interminable argument as
to the obstinate unwillingness of the “clever people” to frequent the fashionable,
and both men knew there that was no use in prolonging it.

“I wonder,” Winsett broke off,
“how a Countess happens to live in our slum?”

“Because she doesn’t care a hang about where she lives—
or about any of our little social sign-posts,”
said Archer,
with a secret pride in his own picture of her.

“H’m—
been in bigger places, I suppose,”
the other commented.
“Well, here’s my corner. So long.”

He slouched off across Broadway,
and Archer stood looking after him
and musing on his last words.

Ned Winsett had those flashes of penetration;
they were the most interesting thing about him,
and always made Archer wonder
why they had allowed him to accept failure so stolidly
at an age when most men are still struggling.

Archer had known that Winsett had a wife and child,
but he had never seen them.
The two men always met at the Century,
or at some haunt of journalists and theatrical people,
such as the restaurant where Winsett had proposed to go for a bock.
He had given Archer to understand
that his wife was an invalid;
which might be true of the poor lady,
or might merely mean
that she was lacking in social gifts or in evening clothes,
or in both.
Winsett himself had a savage abhorrence of social observances:
Archer, who dressed in the evening
because he thought it cleaner and more comfortable to do so,
and who had never stopped to consider
that cleanliness and comfort
are two of the costliest items in a modest budget,
regarded Winsett’s attitude as part
of the boring “Bohemian” pose
that always made fashionable people,
who changed their clothes without talking about it,
and were not forever harping on the number of servants one kept,
seem so much simpler and less self-conscious than the others.
Nevertheless,
he was always stimulated by Winsett,
and whenever he caught sight of the journalist’s
lean bearded face
and melancholy eyes
he would rout him out of his corner
and carry him off for a long talk.

Winsett was not a journalist by choice.
He was a pure man of letters,
untimely born in a world that had no need of letters;
but after publishing one volume of brief and exquisite literary appreciations,
of which one hundred and twenty copies were sold,
thirty given away,
and the balance eventually destroyed by the publishers (as per contract)
to make room for more marketable material,
he had abandoned his real calling,
and taken a sub-editorial job on a women’s weekly,
where fashion-plates and paper patterns alternated
with New England love-stories
and advertisements of temperance drinks.
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