Mrs. Archer, who knew this to be a hint that the seventeen-hand chestnuts which were never kept waiting were at the door, rose with a hurried murmur of thanks. Mrs. van der Luyden beamed on her with the smile of Esther interceding with Ahasuerus; but her husband raised a protesting hand.
“There is nothing to thank me for, dear Adeline; nothing whatever. This kind of thing must not happen in New York; it shall not, as long as I can help it,” he pronounced with sovereign gentleness as he steered his cousins to the door.
Two hours later, every one knew that the great C-spring barouche in which Mrs. van der Luyden took the air at all seasons had been seen at old Mrs. Mingott’s door, where a large square envelope was handed in; and that evening at the Opera Mr. Sillerton Jackson was able to state that the envelope contained a card inviting the Countess Olenska to the dinner which the van der Luydens were giving the following week for their cousin, the Duke of St. Austrey.
Some of the younger men in the club box exchanged a smile at this announcement, and glanced sideways at Lawrence Lefferts, who sat carelessly in the front of the box, pulling his long fair moustache, and who remarked with authority, as the soprano paused: “No one but Patti ought to attempt the Sonnambula.”
Chapter 8
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 mad-house, 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 wildflowers”; 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.”
Newland felt the inexplicable need to protect the Countess. She had no idea just how despised she was among polite society. And while the van der Luydens were waving their hands in approval, which no one would deign to challenge, the Countess was making matters exceedingly difficult by rejecting convention with her flagrant behavior. Yet, there was something naive and unassuming about her. How could she choose to seat herself beside him without any concern over the consequences of her actions? And then to engage him so freely as though he were a bosom chum? He had never met a woman quite like her. She shocked him, but he found himself stimulated by her boldness.
As she studied her Viennese fan of eagle feathers, Newland availed himself of the opportunity to consider her features. He did not mind that her cheeks had paled—there was certainly a mysterious authority in her beauty. Her lips were delicate, a pinkish red, and appeared supple like the finest of silks. Their fullness seemed as if they were made to be kissed. Newland Archer suddenly found himself overcome with desire. What struck him most about the Countess was that she seemed to have an uncanny ability to capture his attention in the most striking of ways. At that moment, Ellen Olenska was the most enticing woman he had ever met.
“I have missed the city,” she said.
Newland rose and faced the veranda. “Before you join the others, perhaps I could show you the view … from the window of course. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”
“I would like that very much,” she said.
“The view is quite remarkable,” he said, waiting for her to rise. She placed her hand upon his arm and he escorted her to the window inside a private alcove where the others could not readily see them.
“I have always enjoyed the lights of New York City,” she said.
“There is a certain magic in their sparkle.”
“Sometimes I forget that they sparkle. I had rather thought of them as merely light in a dark place.” The Countess laughed lightly. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be so somber.”
Newland faced the Countess. He was struck by her beauty in the dim light. He could only see her as sparkling.
The Countess gazed into his eyes. “Are you quite all right?” she asked, smiling up at him.
Newland was not all right; he was conflicted and torn. How could he be so happily engaged to May, and yet be standing there with a woman he barely knew and be filled with such a powerful desire to kiss her? The sorrowful look in her eyes said she wanted him to act spontaneously. And had they been the only two present in the drawing room, he would have acted.
He lifted the Countess’s hand. With her glove removed, he felt her skin, which was soft as velvet. He studied the lines of her narrow hands and long fingers. Such a delicate and gentle a creature was she. He slowly lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. He gazed into her eyes for a moment and then gently kissed the back of her hand. The touch of his mouth against her flesh sent an electrical impulse racing from his chest to his loins. He stepped closer and grasped her elbow to support her arm, and then slowly began kissing the length of her arm.
She sighed quietly and then took a deep breath. Her chest began rising and falling as her breath hastened. He could almost hear her heart pattering. She did not try to fight him, not in the slightest, but let him continue making his way up the length of her smooth, delicate arm. He was enraptured by her fragrance, inflamed by her feminine allure.
He stopped at the inside of her elbow and rubbed his lips in small circles inside the crease of her arm. When she gasped, he knew that his touch excited her. He opened his mouth and gently sucked her skin. When he released, he dipped a tongue in the crease of her arm and circled slowly. He could feel the fine hairs on her arm raise, and her skin rippled.
She released an exquisite sigh of pleasure.
He lingered a moment more, and then moved his lips along the delicate inside of her arm. Her body quivered as he slowly and deliberately moved upward. When he reached her neck, he stopped and drew in a deep breath, absorbing her raw fragrance, the result of her exciteme
nt. He rolled his tongue deep between the folds of her arm, and continued to her bare shoulder blade. Her perfumed fragrance heightened his pleasure.
She exhaled, moaning softly, although she did not speak.
He tasted the flesh of her shoulder, and as he moved along, he stopped at the décolletage of her neck to bask in the fragrance of gardenia. His senses were overtaken by her feminine scent, and he was crazed with a desire that he had never known before this moment. He kissed her neck, tasting the salt of her flesh, and moved to kiss the line of her jaw. He brushed his lips across the velvety texture of her face, stopping to touch his nose to hers.
He wanted nothing more than to feel her lips against his. Would he deny himself this moment or would he continue and know her more intimately than if he had been making love to her? To make love was to bask in the pleasures that drove the desires of man, but to kiss was where the heart and passion of the man thrived. The kiss, unlike any other physical touch, defined romance between a man and woman. It told all. There were no secrets concealed from its beauty.
Newland dwelled blissfully in the moment. The anticipation thrilled him in a way that could not be expressed in words. For a moment, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, and then, overcome with passion and desire, Newland closed his and gently pressed his lips to hers.
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