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Today, as it has been for the past twenty-six years, propriety weighed on him. Propriety — that all-mighty god conducting every life from above; restricting his urges and expropriating him from impetuosity.
Newland Archer had become ‘a good citizen’, had lived a whole decent life. A life that had however passed by him like a river: he felt the flow without neither savouring it nor being able to stop it. Passion, adventure, thirst for knowledge — it was all smoothed by time amid the semi-happiness of a marital life. His old habits lost the enthusiasm they used to bring: neither reading sonnets and history volumes, nor social gatherings, nor travelling could entice him more than a solemn dinner with the Wellands. His wife had greatly contributed to having him settled into that domesticity, and what was worse, he himself had welcomed it. It was better that way: the chains that imprisoned him were honourable and needed.
And yet… in spite all of that, one name could still make his livid figures regain a bit of colour and intimately make him tremble of desire. Ellen. ‘If only…’, it often crossed his mind, even though he wasn’t given reasons to remember her name: everyone around him except old Mrs. Manson Mingott actively avoided that reference, as if it were a curse; and aware of the devastation that those two syllables could bring, he couldn’t be more relieved to participate in such unofficial conspiracy. Yet, his mind had a specific corner dedicated to her. It motivated him to continue such rueful life — and most importantly, it no longer posed a danger to the balance he had architected.
Almost thirty years went by like this, between dreaming of what could have been and the resignation about what had become.
But one day came where, without planning to nor searching for, that much dreaded and much desired name was no longer painfully evoked. Ellen Olenska was flesh and bone, and attainable. And waited for him upstairs at that precise moment, just as his son urged him to go to her encounter. And it felt… authorised and perfect — in one word, easy. And that’s why he didn’t go up.
Newland Archer was the same he had always been: a dilettante, who believed that time enhances pleasure, and the waiting preceding the action is sometimes more delightful than its fulfilment. Only now he had also become a pessimist, for he was so sure that, the minute that what he had idealised for so long would become reality — and therefore, routine —, it would lose its charms. To consummate his most ardent desires would be a sign of decadence: that was his most profound certainty.
It wasn’t without regret, however, that he went back to his hotel room: but he was inflexible in his decision; and he would have left Paris that same afternoon to run away from temptation if he had gone on such trip alone. But deserting his son precisely on their last chance of spending time alone before the boy would get married would be unforgivable.
What Dallas Archer did end up considering ‘unforgivable’, surprisingly, was his father’s refusal to see Madam Olenska. It would never occur to any reasonable man to desert the object of his affection in such circumstances. Didn’t he know how thrilled, how hopeful she showed herself in the letters they had exchanged? And how absolutely disappointed she was to see him climb the stairs alone? Frankly, he himself could barely justify such behaviour…! Especially knowing what she had meant not only to his father, but also to Fanny. How could he disrespect a woman who had always been so dedicated to his future daughter-in-law?!
Newland heard these and other brisk accusations without reacting. He let his son present his arguments and finish his attempts to persuade him to see her.
“Dallas, my boy…”, he spoke after more or less ten minutes of patient silence, “what good would it do to meet Madam Olenska after all these years? She is dear to Fanny and shall continue to be. But how does that involve me in any way?”
‘His boy’ stood incredulous with his father’s firmness.
“Unless I have misinterpreted the signs, which is not probable, I believe it involves you in every way.”
“And what signs are those?”, Newland laughed.
“The way she wrote back, which was confirmed by her ultimate disappointment at your refusal to go up… Her manners. To which I add Mother’s sly comments in very rare occasions that allude precisely to that woman. Besides… there are rumours, old family stories. She is your ‘Fanny’, is she not? Your most ardent passion?”
Newland fidgeted, uncomfortable but not willing to confirm such assumptions, as probity demanded.
“Dallas, you have made up a fantasy in your mind that in no way corresponds to the truth. Such ‘ardent passion’, as you call it, is nothing but an old infatuation.”
“So be it…”, he disrespectfully dismissed his father’s declarations with a questioning tone, “but maybe it’s time you live a little for yourself. Mother’s gone… I’m about to get married, Mary has already… and Bill is barely around these days.”
“If you believe that it’s solitude that may threaten my well-being, I assure you there’s no reason to worry.”
“It’s not a matter of loneliness, but rather happiness. The most profound and extreme happiness.”
Newland pondered. He couldn’t rebuke Dallas for his daring: he was in love and about to tie the knot; it was only natural he’d try to project his own ambitions onto others. Still, he couldn’t possibly satisfy him in this particular aspect. He was searching for a reason that would put a definitive end to that discussion, when his interlocutor made a last attempt.
“Father… this may be your last chance of seeing her.”
And having said that, he reached for his pocket and laid a note on the table. Then, he left the dining room, letting his father finish his meal.
The calligraphy was perfect: a lady’s one, evidently; and even though it had been almost thirty years since he first got acquainted with it, he could instantly recognise its author due to the letter’s tone.
Madame Olenska’s note was concise, but persuasive:
‘Dear Newland:
It would give me a lot of satisfaction if an old-fashioned man would grant me the honour of joining me for tea this evening, or any other day that he finds convenient, while he remains in Paris.
Ellen’
Against his self-restrain, he smiled, as her message was very well captured between the lines: ‘I understand you’re the same you always were; and I have no intention of disrespecting that; but I still want to see you, even if it’s a goodbye.’
Yes — Newland Archer understood her and deeply desired to promptly obey her request. That was the only unquestionable fact; and he faced the inevitability of caving with as much tranquillity his integrity would permit.
In a matter of half an hour he was standing at the entrance of her building, like he had been a few hours prior. Only this time, he went up. The servants posed no impediments to lead him to her presence: ‘their mistress would often receive friends at those late hours’, the poor man announced, unknowingly offending Newland. He felt not much had changed, even though it had — her sociable qualities would most likely remain intact and fill her home with various guests. That in itself wouldn’t be something painful to acknowledge… if it weren’t the assumptions he had already started to formulate in his mind.
Had she led a life of scandals, affairs and conquests? It would be logical to assume so, since she apparently had never remarried. And if that thinking was correct, could he, Newland Archer, a respected New Yorker, an honourable father, pursue any kind of friendship (as innocent as it could be) with that woman?
All these thoughts had him in deep distress as her servant guided him throughout the halls. He suffered with his self-reprimands, asking himself why he had come; what did he expect to find; why insist on a buried subject. All kinds of questions popped into his mind until the doors of her living room opened and she raised from her chair to greet him and then — then, he couldn’t think about absolutely anything, except her.
She appeared to him like an unfathomable vision: half-smiling, tranquil, although there was a certain twinkle in her eyes and — could it be? — some signs of anxiety. That vision of Heaven had certainly suffered the effects of time: her once blonde hair was now grizzled, kissed by ashes; and there were a few wrinkles around her eyes and lips that fainted her beauty. But there was a certain grace in her deportment, in her distinct manners.
“Newland…”, she started tenderly, and he was surprised with the informality of her addressment after all those years, “I knew you’d come.”
“Were my son’s words that optimistic? He shouldn’t have promised you such a thing.”, and having said that, he almost didn’t recognise his own voice. It had become rougher, maybe even hoarse, with time. He only realised that when facing a vision that sounded ripped out directly from his past: her voice had barely changed by contrast.
“He didn’t. Still, I hoped.”
It did something to him, a certain sensation in his belly that reminded him of his youth.
“I'm not sure if I should have come.”
“Why not?”, Ellen couldn’t hide that audible hint of sadness.
“Because we changed. I certainly have. And I’m not sure what else is there for us to say.”
“Many things, Newland. Many things. For one… I’d like to ask for your forgiveness.”
He knew very well what she was referring to, but his bitter thoughts, now louder than the effect that seeing her after so long had provoked, didn’t let him pity her.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”, he declared in such a tone that showed that, in fact, her actions had had nefarious consequences — a sort of painful yet hushed accusation.
Ellen got that and the only thing she could say then was this:
“I wish I had seen you one last time before leaving New York. But you know why I left, don’t you, Newland?” As he didn’t answer, she continued. “May had confessed she was expecting your child, and I… I couldn’t—”
“May lied. Or rather… she didn’t. But she wasn’t sure yet when she told you so…” He sighed. “Ellen… she knew.”
An expression of horror shook her.
“Oh God! She knew… she knew”, Madame Olenska repeated, in a mix of bewilderment and terror.
“Not that we almost…” — fell into temptation, he meant to say; but didn’t. “Not that. But my feelings for you were quite evident. And if she told you, it wasn’t because she saw a friend in you. It was a subtle warning — or a desperate request. She wanted you to leave. I just never expected you would oblige her without questioning it. Without… talking to me first.”
His past love was slowly absorbing this information and intimately reaching new conclusions. Sighing, she ended up saying:
“You know what? Even if May hadn’t told me she was pregnant, what was left for us to do? To seize one night and then part ways forever.”
“Perhaps. But that memory would have helped me to bear almost thirty years of regret. It would have been better, Ellen, than not being given the chance of saying goodbye.”
The fact that she expected to hear that from him didn’t make it easier.
“Please, don’t reproach me. It was hard for me as well.”
He gulped, and avoiding to dive deeper in hurtful memories, he said:
“I didn’t come here to criticise you or to talk about the past. It’s useless. I came… well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I came. I guess… Dallas said that this might be the last chance to see you. And I felt I had to.”
“But it doesn’t have to be the last chance. Your son is marrying Fanny, and I’m sure you’re aware of the connection I have with that girl. There will be more opportunities to re-establish ties.”
“No doubt about that. The question, dear Ellen, is whether we should.”
She frowned, confused.
“What do you mean?”
He exposed his thoughts, already knowing it would pain him to be so direct, running the risk of offending her.
“We lead very different lives now. People expect things from me. And I presume our friendship would raise suspicions.”
“Suspicions?!”, she mocked, “And what suspicions would be so inadmissible to you? That we are more than friends? Or that you’re friends with me?”
Ellen spoke so calmly he almost believed her not to be hurt. But her eyes betrayed her: the attention he paid to her reputation, even after all those years, was excruciating.
“There is nothing I want more than being able to partake in your happiness; to resume relations and treat you as an equal partner. However, although I do not wish to condemn your choices, I can’t deny that your lifestyle appears to me as… incompatible with mine, to say the least.”
“Oh, please, elucidate me. What is it about my lifestyle that shocks you so?”
“Ellen… your habits are questionable. But please don’t make me say more than the rules of decency allow.”
Instead of the reprimand he expected, her eyes lit up, as if a sudden thought had made things clear in the confusing darkness that had occupied her mind up until a few seconds ago.
“Oh… I see…”
She repeated similar expressions three or four times before asking boldly:
“Is it my habits that bother you or do you only seek reasons to leave me?”
Her acumen discovered the truth: Newland Archer felt that taking risks at this stage was a useless effort; that the chance of a liaison between them would fail could be a tough blow to recover from. And that the life he had made for himself couldn’t crumble just because he ardently wished to give in to caprice.
“Leave you…”, his voice just above a whisper repeated, “It’s funny to hear you say that.” He turned around to avoid her gaze and, looking out her windows into Paris, he confessed his most sacred emotions. “Once upon a time, I would have put you above anything else. Above my promises, even honour and reputation. No, Ellen, I wouldn’t leave you then; rather, I would have left anything for you. But now that doesn’t sound doable, does it?”
She reflected on his words. He was right: it wasn’t doable to leave everything for her — but then again, he wouldn’t have to.
“Newland?”
He felt her hand on his shoulder and resisted the urge of taking her in his arms then and there.
“Things are different now; society has changed. We won’t face the rejection that we once would have.”
He acknowledged that: the fact that his own son was about to marry Beaufort’s daughter was the ultimate proof. He couldn’t help but smile when remembering an ancient acquaintance’s warning about it. ‘If things go on at this pace, we shall see our children fighting for invitations to swindlers’ houses, and marrying Beaufort’s bastards’, Lefferts had prophesied once. If that could happen, anything could, in fact. But still… but still.
He was lost in his inner thoughts when Ellen surrounded him to face him and struck his heart decisively.
“Why resist now, Newland? What more could we lose that we haven’t already?”
That was the last barrier: his resistance flew away, together with his reservation, his pride, his ego and his pain; it was washed away with the salty tears he could taste on her mouth as he crushed her chest to his.
They were old and tired and much of their beauty had inevitably faded. And yet, neither of them felt so young or so vigorous.
Newland Archer felt like he had found, at last, the flower of life.