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The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton CHAPTER VIII.
It was generally agreed in New York that the Countess Olenska had "lost her looks."
She had appeared there first, in Newland Archer's boyhood, as a brilliantly pretty
little girl of nine or ten, of whom people said that she "ought to be painted."
Her parents had been continental wanderers, and after a roaming babyhood she had lost
them both, and been taken in charge by her aunt, Medora Manson, also a wanderer, who
was herself returning to New York to "settle down."
Poor Medora, repeatedly widowed, was always coming home to settle down (each time in a
less expensive house), and bringing with her a new husband or an adopted child; but
after a few months she invariably parted
from her husband or quarrelled with her ward, and, having got rid of her house at a
loss, set out again on her wanderings.
As her mother had been a Rushworth, and her last unhappy marriage had linked her to one
of the crazy Chiverses, New York looked indulgently on her eccentricities; but when
she returned with her little orphaned
niece, whose parents had been popular in spite of their regrettable taste for
travel, people thought it a pity that the pretty child should be in such hands.
Every one was disposed to be kind to little Ellen Mingott, though her dusky red cheeks
and tight curls gave her an air of gaiety that seemed unsuitable in a child who
should still have been in black for her parents.
It was one of the misguided Medora's many peculiarities to flout the unalterable
rules that regulated American mourning, and when she stepped from the steamer her
family were scandalised to see that the
crape veil she wore for her own brother was seven inches shorter than those of her
sisters-in-law, while little Ellen was in crimson merino and amber beads, like a
gipsy foundling.
But New York had so long resigned itself to Medora that only a few old ladies shook
their heads over Ellen's gaudy clothes, while her other relations fell under the
charm of her high colour and high spirits.
She was a fearless and familiar little thing, who asked disconcerting questions,
made precocious comments, and possessed outlandish arts, such as dancing a Spanish
shawl dance and singing Neapolitan love- songs to a guitar.
Under the direction of her aunt (whose real name was Mrs. Thorley Chivers, but who,
having received a Papal title, had resumed her first husband's patronymic, and called
herself the Marchioness Manson, because in
Italy she could turn it into Manzoni) the little girl received an expensive but
incoherent education, which included "drawing from the model," a thing never
dreamed of before, and playing the piano in quintets with professional musicians.
Of course no good could come of this; and when, a few years later, poor Chivers
finally died in a madhouse, his widow (draped in strange weeds) again pulled up
stakes and departed with Ellen, who had
grown into a tall bony girl with conspicuous eyes.
For some time no more was heard of them; then news came of Ellen's marriage to an
immensely rich Polish nobleman of legendary fame, whom she had met at a ball at the
Tuileries, and who was said to have
princely establishments in Paris, Nice and Florence, a yacht at Cowes, and many square
miles of shooting in Transylvania.
She disappeared in a kind of sulphurous apotheosis, and when a few years later
Medora again came back to New York, subdued, impoverished, mourning a third
husband, and in quest of a still smaller
house, people wondered that her rich niece had not been able to do something for her.
Then came the news that Ellen's own marriage had ended in disaster, and that
she was herself returning home to seek rest and oblivion among her kinsfolk.
These things passed through Newland Archer's mind a week later as he watched
the Countess Olenska enter the van der Luyden drawing-room on the evening of the
momentous dinner.
The occasion was a solemn one, and he wondered a little nervously how she would
carry it off.
She came rather late, one hand still ungloved, and fastening a bracelet about
her wrist; yet she entered without any appearance of haste or embarrassment the
drawing-room in which New York's most
chosen company was somewhat awfully assembled.
In the middle of the room she paused, looking about her with a grave mouth and
smiling eyes; and in that instant Newland Archer rejected the general verdict on her
looks.
It was true that her early radiance was gone.
The red cheeks had paled; she was thin, worn, a little older-looking than her age,
which must have been nearly thirty.
But there was about her the mysterious authority of beauty, a sureness in the
carriage of the head, the movement of the eyes, which, without being in the least
theatrical, struck his as highly trained and full of a conscious power.
At the same time she was simpler in manner than most of the ladies present, and many
people (as he heard afterward from Janey) were disappointed that her appearance was
not more "stylish"--for stylishness was what New York most valued.
It was, perhaps, Archer reflected, because her early vivacity had disappeared; because
she was so quiet--quiet in her movements, her voice, and the tones of her low-pitched
voice.
New York had expected something a good deal more reasonant in a young woman with such a
history. The dinner was a somewhat formidable
business.
Dining with the van der Luydens was at best no light matter, and dining there with a
Duke who was their cousin was almost a religious solemnity.
It pleased Archer to think that only an old New Yorker could perceive the shade of
difference (to New York) between being merely a Duke and being the van der
Luydens' Duke.
New York took stray noblemen calmly, and even (except in the Struthers set) with a
certain distrustful hauteur; but when they presented such credentials as these they
were received with an old-fashioned
cordiality that they would have been greatly mistaken in ascribing solely to
their standing in Debrett.
It was for just such distinctions that the young man cherished his old New York even
while he smiled at it. The van der Luydens had done their best to
emphasise the importance of the occasion.
The du Lac Sevres and the Trevenna George II plate were out; so was the van der
Luyden "Lowestoft" (East India Company) and the Dagonet Crown Derby.
Mrs. van der Luyden looked more than ever like a Cabanel, and Mrs. Archer, in her
grandmother's seed-pearls and emeralds, reminded her son of an Isabey miniature.
All the ladies had on their handsomest jewels, but it was characteristic of the
house and the occasion that these were mostly in rather heavy old-fashioned
settings; and old Miss Lanning, who had
been persuaded to come, actually wore her mother's cameos and a Spanish blonde shawl.
The Countess Olenska was the only young woman at the dinner; yet, as Archer scanned
the smooth plump elderly faces between their diamond necklaces and towering
ostrich feathers, they struck him as curiously immature compared with hers.
It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
The Duke of St. Austrey, who sat at his hostess's right, was naturally the chief
figure of the evening.
But if the Countess Olenska was less conspicuous than had been hoped, the Duke
was almost invisible.
Being a well-bred man he had not (like another recent ducal visitor) come to the
dinner in a shooting-jacket; but his evening clothes were so shabby and baggy,
and he wore them with such an air of their
being homespun, that (with his stooping way of sitting, and the vast beard spreading
over his shirt-front) he hardly gave the appearance of being in dinner attire.
He was short, round-shouldered, sunburnt, with a thick nose, small eyes and a
sociable smile; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was in such low tones that,
despite the frequent silences of
expectation about the table, his remarks were lost to all but his neighbours.
When the men joined the ladies after dinner the Duke went straight up to the Countess
Olenska, and they sat down in a corner and plunged into animated talk.
Neither seemed aware that the Duke should first have paid his respects to Mrs. Lovell
Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers, and the Countess have conversed with that amiable
hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet of
Washington Square, who, in order to have the pleasure of meeting her, had broken
through his fixed rule of not dining out between January and April.
The two chatted together for nearly twenty minutes; then the Countess rose and,
walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side.
It was not the custom in New York drawing- rooms for a lady to get up and walk away
from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another.
Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who
wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side.
But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect
ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes.
"I want you to talk to me about May," she said.
Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"
"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice.
He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."
She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers";
and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met."
This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark
had caused him.
It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull,
and dared to utter the opinion.
He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words
had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch on distressing
memories, and before he could think of
anything to say she had strayed back to her original subject.
"May is a darling; I've seen no young girl in New York so handsome and so intelligent.
Are you very much in love with her?"
Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "As much as a man can be."
She continued to consider him thoughtfully, as if not to miss any shade of meaning in
what he said, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?"
"To being in love?
If there is, I haven't found it!" She glowed with sympathy.
"Ah--it's really and truly a romance?" "The most romantic of romances!"
"How delightful!
And you found it all out for yourselves--it was not in the least arranged for you?"
Archer looked at her incredulously.
"Have you forgotten," he asked with a smile, "that in our country we don't allow
our marriages to be arranged for us?" A dusky blush rose to her cheek, and he
instantly regretted his words.
"Yes," she answered, "I'd forgotten. You must forgive me if I sometimes make
these mistakes.
I don't always remember that everything here is good that was--that was bad where
I've come from."
She looked down at her Viennese fan of eagle feathers, and he saw that her lips
trembled. "I'm so sorry," he said impulsively; "but
you ARE among friends here, you know."
"Yes--I know. Wherever I go I have that feeling.
That's why I came home.
I want to forget everything else, to become a complete American again, like the
Mingotts and Wellands, and you and your delightful mother, and all the other good
people here tonight.
Ah, here's May arriving, and you will want to hurry away to her," she added, but
without moving; and her eyes turned back from the door to rest on the young man's
face.
The drawing-rooms were beginning to fill up with after-dinner guests, and following
Madame Olenska's glance Archer saw May Welland entering with her mother.
In her dress of white and silver, with a wreath of silver blossoms in her hair, the
tall girl looked like a Diana just alight from the chase.
"Oh," said Archer, "I have so many rivals; you see she's already surrounded.
There's the Duke being introduced."
"Then stay with me a little longer," Madame Olenska said in a low tone, just touching
his knee with her plumed fan. It was the lightest touch, but it thrilled
him like a caress.
"Yes, let me stay," he answered in the same tone, hardly knowing what he said; but just
then Mr. van der Luyden came up, followed by old Mr. Urban Dagonet.
The Countess greeted them with her grave smile, and Archer, feeling his host's
admonitory glance on him, rose and surrendered his seat.
Madame Olenska held out her hand as if to bid him goodbye.
"Tomorrow, then, after five--I shall expect you," she said; and then turned back to
make room for Mr. Dagonet.
"Tomorrow--" Archer heard himself repeating, though there had been no
engagement, and during their talk she had given him no hint that she wished to see
him again.
As he moved away he saw Lawrence Lefferts, tall and resplendent, leading his wife up
to be introduced; and heard Gertrude Lefferts say, as she beamed on the Countess
with her large unperceiving smile: "But I
think we used to go to dancing-school together when we were children--."
Behind her, waiting their turn to name themselves to the Countess, Archer noticed
a number of the recalcitrant couples who had declined to meet her at Mrs. Lovell
Mingott's.
As Mrs. Archer remarked: when the van der Luydens chose, they knew how to give a
lesson. The wonder was that they chose so seldom.
The young man felt a touch on his arm and saw Mrs. van der Luyden looking down on him
from the pure eminence of black velvet and the family diamonds.
"It was good of you, dear Newland, to devote yourself so unselfishly to Madame
Olenska. I told your cousin Henry he must really
come to the rescue."
He was aware of smiling at her vaguely, and she added, as if condescending to his
natural shyness: "I've never seen May looking lovelier.
The Duke thinks her the handsomest girl in the room."