The papers he had retired to read did not tell him much in fact; but they plunged him into an atmosphere in which he choked and spluttered.They consisted mainly of an exchange of letters between Count Olenski's solicitors and a French legal firm to whom the Countess had applied for the settlement of her financial situation.There was also a short letter from the Count to his wife: after reading it, Newland Archer rose, jammed the papers back into their envelope, and reentered Mr.
Letterblair's office.
"Here are the letters, sir.If you wish, I'll see Madame Olenska," he said in a constrained voice.
"Thank you--thank you, Mr.Archer.Come and dine with me tonight if you're free, and we'll go into the matter afterward: in case you wish to call on our client tomorrow."Newland Archer walked straight home again that afternoon.It was a winter evening of transparent clearness, with an innocent young moon above the house-tops; and he wanted to fill his soul's lungs with the pure radiance, and not exchange a word with any one till he and Mr.Letterblair were closeted together after dinner.It was impossible to decide otherwise than he had done: he must see Madame Olenska himself rather than let her secrets be bared to other eyes.A great wave of compassion had swept away his indifference and impatience: she stood before him as an exposed and pitiful figure, to be saved at all costs from farther wounding herself in her mad plunges against fate.
He remembered what she had told him of Mrs.
Welland's request to be spared whatever was "unpleasant"in her history, and winced at the thought that it was perhaps this attitude of mind which kept the New York air so pure."Are we only Pharisees after all?" he wondered, puzzled by the effort to reconcile his instinctive disgust at human vileness with his equally instinctive pity for human frailty.
For the first time he perceived how elementary his own principles had always been.He passed for a young man who had not been afraid of risks, and he knew that his secret love-affair with poor silly Mrs.Thorley Rushworth had not been too secret to invest him with a becoming air of adventure.But Mrs.Rushworth was "that kind of woman"; foolish, vain, clandestine by nature, and far more attracted by the secrecy and peril of the affair than by such charms and qualities as he possessed.When the fact dawned on him it nearly broke his heart, but now it seemed the redeeming feature of the case.The affair, in short, had been of the kind that most of the young men of his age had been through, and emerged from with calm consciences and an undisturbed belief in the abysmal distinction between the women one loved and respected and those one enjoyed--and pitied.In this view they were sedulously abetted by their mothers, aunts and other elderly female relatives, who all shared Mrs.Archer's belief that when "such things happened" it was undoubtedly foolish of the man, but somehow always criminal of the woman.All the elderly ladies whom Archer knew regarded any woman who loved imprudently as necessarily unscrupulous and designing, and mere ******-minded man as powerless in her clutches.The only thing to do was to persuade him, as early as possible, to marry a nice girl, and then trust to her to look after him.
In the complicated old European communities, Archer began to guess, love-problems might be less ****** and less easily classified.Rich and idle and ornamental societies must produce many more such situations; and there might even be one in which a woman naturally sensitive and aloof would yet, from the force of circumstances, from sheer defencelessness and loneliness, be drawn into a tie inexcusable by conventional standards.
