The Age of Innocence, Chapter 74

歌手： Edith Wharton • 专辑：The Age of Innocence (unabridged) • 发布时间：2017-01-27 
The AGE of INNOCENCE

BY EDITH WHARTON

BOOK II

Chapter 29

His wife’s dark blue brougham
(with the wedding varnish still on it)
met Archer at the ferry,
and conveyed him luxuriously
to the Pennsylvania terminus in Jersey City.

It was a sombre snowy afternoon,
and the gas-lamps were lit in the big reverberating station.
As he paced the platform,
waiting for the Washington express,
he remembered
that there were people who thought there would one day
be a tunnel under the Hudson
through which the trains of the Pennsylvania railway
would run straight into New York.
They were of the brotherhood of visionaries
who likewise predicted
the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days,
the invention of a flying machine,
lighting by electricity,
telephonic communication without wires,
and other Arabian Night marvels.

“I don’t care which of their visions comes true,” Archer mused,
“as long as the tunnel isn’t built yet.”
In his senseless school-boy happiness
he pictured Madame Olenska’s descent from the train,
his discovery of her a long way off,
among the throngs of meaningless faces,
her clinging to his arm
as he guided her to the carriage,
their slow approach to the wharf
among slipping horses, laden carts,
vociferating teamsters,
and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat,
where they would sit side by side under the snow,
in the motionless carriage,
while the earth seemed to glide away under them,
rolling to the other side of the sun.
It was incredible,
the number of things he had to say to her,
and in what eloquent order
they were forming themselves on his lips . . .

The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer,
and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair.
Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd,
and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages.
And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenska’s pale and surprised face close at hand,
and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like.

They reached each other, their hands met,
and he drew her arm through his.
“This way—I have the carriage,” he said.

After that it all happened as he had dreamed.
He helped her into the brougham with her bags,
and had afterward the vague recollection of having properly reassured her about her grandmother
and given her a summary of the Beaufort situation
(he was struck by the softness of her: “Poor Regina!”).
Meanwhile
the carriage had worked its way out of the coil about the station,
and they were crawling down the slippery incline to the wharf,
menaced by swaying coal-carts,
bewildered horses,
dishevelled express-wagons,
and an empty hearse—
ah, that hearse!
She shut her eyes as it passed,
and clutched at Archer’s hand.

“If only it doesn’t mean—poor Granny!”

“Oh, no, no—she’s much better—
she’s all right, really.
There—we’ve passed it!”
he exclaimed,
as if that made all the difference.
Her hand remained in his,
and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry
he bent over,
unbuttoned her tight brown glove,
and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic.
She disengaged herself with a faint smile,
and he said:
“You didn’t expect me today?”

“Oh, no.”

“I meant to go to Washington to see you.
I’d made all my arrangements—
I very nearly crossed you in the train.”

“Oh—” she exclaimed,
as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape.

“Do you know—I hardly remembered you?”

“Hardly remembered me?”

“I mean: how shall I explain?
I—it’s always so.
Each time you happen to me all over again.”

“Oh, yes: I know! I know!”

“Does it—do I too: to you?” he insisted.

She nodded, looking out of the window.

“Ellen—Ellen—Ellen!”

She made no answer,
and he sat in silence,
watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window.
What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered?
How little they knew of each other, after all!
The precious moments were slipping away,
but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her
and could only helplessly brood
on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity,
which seemed to be symbolised by the fact
of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other’s faces.

“What a pretty carriage! Is it May’s?”
she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window.

“Yes.”

“It was May who sent you to fetch me, then?
How kind of her!”

He made no answer for a moment;
then he said explosively:
“Your husband’s secretary came to see me
the day after we met in Boston.”

In his brief letter to her
he had made no allusion to M. Rivière’s visit,
and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom.
But her reminder that they were in his wife’s carriage
provoked him to an impulse of retaliation.
He would see
if she liked his reference to Rivière any better than he liked hers to May!
As on certain other occasions
when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure,
she betrayed no sign of surprise:
and at once he concluded:
“He writes to her, then.”

“M. Rivière went to see you?”

“Yes: didn’t you know?”

“No,” she answered simply.

“And you’re not surprised?”

She hesitated. “Why should I be?
He told me in Boston that he knew you;
that he’d met you in England I think.”

“Ellen—I must ask you one thing.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to ask it after I saw him,
but I couldn’t put it in a letter.
It was Rivière who helped you to get away—
when you left your husband?”

His heart was beating suffocatingly.
Would she meet this question with the same composure?

“Yes: I owe him a great debt,”
she answered,
without the least tremor in her quiet voice.
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