
the age of innocence
When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club
box the curtain had just gone up on the garden scene. There was
no reason why the young man should not have come earlier, for
he had dined at seven, alone with his mother and sister, and had
lingered afterwards over a cigar in the Gothic library with glazed
black-walnut bookcases and finial-topped chairs, which was the only
room in the house where Mrs Archer allowed smoking. But, in the
first place, New York was a metropolis, and perfectly aware that
in metropolises it was “not the thing” to arrive early at the opera;
and what was or was not “the thing” played a part as important in
Newland Archer’s New York as the inscrutable totem terrors that
had ruled the destinies of his forefathers thousands of years ago.
The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had daw-
dled over his cigar because he was at heart a dilettante, and thinking
over a pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than
its realization. This was especially the case when the pleasure was a
delicate one, as his pleasures mostly were, and on this occasion the
moment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in quality
that, well – if he had timed his arrival in accord with the prima
donna’s stage manager he could not have entered the Academy at
a more significant moment than just as she was singing: “He loves
me – he loves me not – he loves me!” and sprinkling the falling
daisy petals with notes as clear as dew.
She sang, of course, “M’ama!” and not “he loves me”, since an
unalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that
the German text of French operas sung by Swedish artists should
be translated into Italian for the clearer understanding of English-
speaking audiences. This seemed as natural to Newland Archer as
all the other conventions on which his life was moulded: such as
the duty of using two silver-backed brushes with his monogram
in blue enamel to part his hair, and of never appearing in society
without a flower (preferably a gardenia) in his buttonhole.
“M’ama… non m’ama…” the prima donna sang, and “M’ama!”,
with a final burst of love triumphant, as she pressed the dishevelled
daisy to her lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisticated coun-
tenance of the little brown Faust-Capoul* who was vainly trying,