The Age of Innocence, Chapter 42

歌手： Edith Wharton • 专辑：The Age of Innocence (unabridged) • 发布时间：2017-01-27 
作词 : Edith Wharton
Archer was aware that Madame Olenska,
who had seated herself at her grandmother’s side,
was still thoughtfully scrutinising him.
The gaiety had faded from her eyes,
and she said with great gentleness:
“Surely, Granny,
we can persuade them between us to do as he wishes.”

Archer rose to go,
and as his hand met Madame Olenska’s
he felt that she was waiting for him
to make some allusion to her unanswered letter.

“When can I see you?”
he asked, as she walked with him to the door of the room.

“Whenever you like;
but it must be soon if you want to see the little house again.
I am moving next week.”

A pang shot through him
at the memory of his lamplit hours in the low-studded drawing-room.
Few as they had been,
they were thick with memories.

“Tomorrow evening?”

She nodded.
“Tomorrow; yes; but early.
I’m going out.”

The next day was a Sunday,
and if she were “going out” on a Sunday evening
it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers’s.
He felt a slight movement of annoyance,
not so much at her going there
(for he rather liked her going where she pleased
in spite of the van der Luydens),
but because it was the kind of house
at which she was sure to meet Beaufort,
where she must have known beforehand
that she would meet him—
and where she was probably going for that purpose.

“Very well; tomorrow evening,”
he repeated,
inwardly resolved that he would not go early,
and that by reaching her door late
he would either prevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers’s,
or else arrive after she had started—
which, all things considered,
would no doubt be the simplest solution.

It was only half-past eight,
after all, when he rang the bell under the wistaria;
not as late as he had intended by half an hour—
but a singular restlessness
had driven him to her door.
He reflected, however,
that Mrs. Struthers’s Sunday evenings were not like a ball,
and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency,
usually went early.

The one thing he had not counted on,
in entering Madame Olenska’s hall,
was to find hats and overcoats there.
Why had she bidden him to come early
if she was having people to dine?
On a closer inspection of the garments besides
which Nastasia was laying his own,
his resentment gave way to curiosity.
The overcoats were in fact
the very strangest he had ever seen under a polite roof;
and it took but a glance to assure himself
that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort.
One was a shaggy yellow ulster of “reach-me-down” cut,
the other a very old and rusty cloak with a cape—
something like what the French called a “Macfarlane.”
This garment, which appeared to be made for a person of prodigious size,
had evidently seen long and hard wear,
and its greenish-black folds
gave out a moist sawdusty smell
suggestive of prolonged sessions against bar-room walls.
On it lay a ragged grey scarf
and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.

Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia,
who raised hers in return
with a fatalistic “Già!”
as she threw open the drawing-room door.

The young man saw at once
that his hostess was not in the room;
then, with surprise, he discovered
another lady standing by the fire.
This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together,
was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed,
with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour
disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing.
Her hair, which had tried to turn white
and only succeeded in fading,
was surmounted by a Spanish comb
and black lace scarf,
and silk mittens, visibly darned,
covered her rheumatic hands.

Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke,
stood the owners of the two overcoats,
both in morning clothes
that they had evidently not taken off since morning.
In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett;
the other and older, who was unknown to him,
and whose gigantic frame
declared him to be the wearer of the “Macfarlane,”
had a feebly leonine head
with crumpled grey hair,
and moved his arms with large pawing gestures,
as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.

These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug,
their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses,
with a knot of purple pansies at their base,
that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat.

“What they must have cost at this season—
though of course it’s the sentiment one cares about!”
the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in.

The three turned with surprise at his appearance,
and the lady, advancing,
held out her hand.

“Dear Mr. Archer—
almost my cousin Newland!”
she said.
“I am the Marchioness Manson.”

Archer bowed,
and she continued:
“My Ellen has taken me in for a few days.
I came from Cuba,
where I have been spending the winter
with Spanish friends—
such delightful distinguished people:
the highest nobility of old Castile—
how I wish you could know them!
But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver.
You don’t know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?”

Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head,
and the Marchioness continued:
“Ah, New York—New York—
how little the life of the spirit has reached it!
But I see you do know Mr. Winsett.”

“Oh, yes—
I reached him some time ago;
but not by that route,”
Winsett said with his dry smile.

The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.
“How do you know, Mr. Winsett?
The spirit bloweth where it listeth.”

“List—oh, list!”
interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.

“But do sit down, Mr. Archer.
We four have been having a delightful little dinner together,
and my child has gone up to dress.
She expects you;
she will be down in a moment.
We were just admiring these marvellous flowers,
which will surprise her when she reappears.”

Winsett remained on his feet.
“I’m afraid I must be off.
Please tell Madame Olenska
that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street.
This house has been an oasis.”

“Ah, but she won’t abandon you.
Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
It is poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?”
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