[00:00.000]He passed for a young man who had not been afraid of risks,
[00:03.377]and he knew
[00:04.138]that his secret love-affair with poor silly Mrs. Thorley Rushworth
[00:07.817]had not been too secret
[00:09.567]to invest him with a becoming air of adventure.
[00:11.810]But Mrs. Rushworth was “that kind of woman”;
[00:15.052]foolish, vain,
[00:16.565]clandestine by nature,
[00:18.069]and far more attracted by the secrecy and peril of the affair
[00:22.066]than by such charms and qualities as he possessed.
[00:25.069]When the fact dawned on him
[00:27.568]it nearly broke his heart,
[00:28.808]but now it seemed the redeeming feature of the case.
[00:31.803]The affair, in short, had been of the kind that most of the young men of his age had been through,
[00:37.068]and emerged from with calm consciences
[00:39.318]and an undisturbed belief
[00:41.060]in the abysmal distinction between the women one loved and respected
[00:44.069]and those one enjoyed—and pitied.
[00:47.070]In this view
[00:48.316]they were sedulously abetted by their mothers, aunts and other elderly female relatives,
[00:53.570]who all shared Mrs. Archer’s belief
[00:55.818]that when “such things happened”
[00:58.068]it was undoubtedly foolish of the man,
[01:00.318]but somehow always criminal of the woman.
[01:03.318]All the elderly ladies whom Archer knew
[01:06.065]regarded any woman who loved imprudently
[01:08.317]as necessarily unscrupulous and designing,
[01:11.568]and mere simple-minded man
[01:13.568]as powerless in her clutches.
[01:15.319]The only thing to do was to persuade him, as early as possible,
[01:19.570]to marry a nice girl,
[01:21.069]and then trust to her to look after him.
[01:24.316]
[01:24.316]In the complicated old European communities, Archer began to guess,
[01:28.814]love-problems might be less simple
[01:31.067]and less easily classified.
[01:33.062]Rich and idle and ornamental societies
[01:36.063]must produce many more such situations;
[01:38.567]and there might even be one
[01:40.319]in which a woman naturally sensitive and aloof
[01:42.313]would yet, from the force of circumstances,
[01:44.821]from sheer defencelessness and loneliness,
[01:47.819]be drawn into a tie inexcusable by conventional standards.
[01:51.816]
[01:52.069]On reaching home
[01:53.570]he wrote a line to the Countess Olenska,
[01:55.314]asking at what hour of the next day she could receive him,
[01:59.077]and despatched it by a messenger-boy,
[02:01.321]who returned presently with a word to the effect
[02:03.567]that she was going to Skuytercliff the next morning to stay over Sunday with the van der Luydens,
[02:08.315]but that he would find her alone that evening after dinner.
[02:11.069]The note was written on a rather untidy half-sheet,
[02:14.568]without date or address,
[02:16.318]but her hand was firm and free.
[02:18.317]He was amused at the idea of her week-ending in the stately solitude of Skuytercliff,
[02:23.571]but immediately afterward felt
[02:25.567]that there, of all places,
[02:27.060]she would most feel the chill of minds rigorously averted from the “unpleasant.”
[02:32.076]
[02:32.076]
[02:32.558]He was at Mr. Letterblair’s punctually at seven,
[02:35.561]glad of the pretext for excusing himself soon after dinner.
[02:39.067]He had formed his own opinion from the papers entrusted to him,
[02:42.570]and did not especially want to go into the matter with his senior partner.
[02:46.069]Mr. Letterblair was a widower,
[02:48.319]and they dined alone,
[02:49.559]copiously and slowly,
[02:51.317]in a dark shabby room
[02:53.063]hung with yellowing prints of “The Death of Chatham”
[02:55.820]and “The Coronation of Napoleon.”
[02:57.819]On the sideboard,
[02:59.316]between fluted Sheraton knife-cases,
[03:01.319]stood a decanter of Haut Brion,
[03:03.320]and another of the old Lanning port
[03:05.816](the gift of a client),
[03:07.070]which the wastrel Tom Lanning
[03:09.070]had sold off a year or two before his mysterious and discreditable death in San Francisco—
[03:14.317]an incident less publicly humiliating to the family than the sale of the cellar.
[03:19.372]
[03:19.900]After a velvety oyster soup
[03:21.887]came shad and cucumbers,
[03:23.400]then a young broiled turkey with corn fritters,
[03:26.389]followed by a canvas-back
[03:28.398]with currant jelly and a celery mayonnaise.
[03:30.484]Mr. Letterblair, who lunched on a sandwich and tea,
[03:33.739]dined deliberately and deeply,
[03:35.978]and insisted on his guest’s doing the same.
[03:38.985]Finally,
[03:39.982]when the closing rites had been accomplished,
[03:42.490]the cloth was removed,
[03:43.733]cigars were lit,
[03:44.991]and Mr. Letterblair, leaning back in his chair and pushing the port westward,
[03:49.224]said, spreading his back agreeably to the coal fire behind him:
[03:52.741]“The whole family are against a divorce.
[03:55.933]And I think rightly.”
[03:57.928]
[03:58.188]Archer instantly felt himself
[04:00.433]on the other side of the argument.
[04:02.188]“But why, sir?
[04:03.686]If there ever was a case—”
[04:05.187]
[04:05.678]“Well—what’s the use?
[04:07.937]She’s here—he’s there;
[04:10.437]the Atlantic’s between them.
[04:12.185]She’ll never get back a dollar more of her money than what he’s voluntarily returned to her:
[04:17.436]their damned heathen marriage settlements
[04:20.187]take precious good care of that.
[04:21.935]As things go over there,
[04:23.935]Olenski’s acted generously:
[04:25.688]he might have turned her out without a penny.”
[04:28.177]
[04:28.438]The young man knew this and was silent.
[04:31.437]
[04:31.683]“I understand, though,”
[04:33.678]Mr. Letterblair continued,
[04:35.187]“that she attaches no importance to the money.
[04:38.176]Therefore, as the family say,
[04:40.682]why not let well enough alone?”
[04:42.687]
[04:42.938]Archer had gone to the house an hour earlier
[04:45.938]in full agreement with Mr. Letterblair’s view;
[04:47.935]but put into words by this selfish, well-fed and supremely indifferent old man
[04:53.186]it suddenly became the Pharisaic voice of a society wholly absorbed in barricading itself against the unpleasant.
[05:00.186]
[05:00.438]“I think that’s for her to decide.”
[05:02.931]
[05:03.188]“H’m—
[05:04.187]have you considered the consequences if she decides for divorce?”
[05:08.437]
[05:08.646]“You mean the threat in her husband’s letter?
[05:11.385]What weight would that carry?
[05:13.145]It’s no more than the vague charge of an angry blackguard.”
[05:16.645]
[05:16.896]“Yes;
[05:17.641]but it might make some unpleasant talk if he really defends the suit.”
[05:22.395]
[05:22.646]“Unpleasant—!”
[05:24.386]said Archer explosively.
[05:26.396]
[05:26.396]Mr. Letterblair looked at him from under enquiring eyebrows,
[05:30.159]and the young man, aware of the uselessness of trying to explain what was in his mind,
[05:34.395]bowed acquiescently while his senior continued: “Divorce is always unpleasant.”
[05:40.478]
[05:40.478]“You agree with me?” Mr. Letterblair resumed, after a waiting silence.
[05:46.229]
[05:46.481]“Naturally,” said Archer.
[05:48.730]
[05:48.937]“Well, then,
[05:50.189]I may count on you;
[05:51.675]the Mingotts may count on you;
[05:53.684]to use your influence against the idea?”
[05:56.685]
[05:56.939]Archer hesitated.
[05:58.690]“I can’t pledge myself till I’ve seen the Countess Olenska,”
[06:02.187]he said at length.
[06:03.931]
[06:04.177]“Mr. Archer, I don’t understand you.
[06:07.188]Do you want to marry into a family with a scandalous divorce-suit hanging over it?”
[06:12.436]
[06:12.680]“I don’t think that has anything to do with the case.”
[06:16.183]
[06:16.432]Mr. Letterblair put down his glass of port
[06:19.438]and fixed on his young partner
[06:21.181]a cautious and apprehensive gaze.
[06:23.686]
[06:23.938]Archer understood that he ran the risk of having his mandate withdrawn,
[06:27.437]and for some obscure reason
[06:29.186]he disliked the prospect.
[06:30.938]Now that the job had been thrust on him
[06:32.937]he did not propose to relinquish it;
[06:34.679]and, to guard against the possibility,
[06:36.676]he saw that he must reassure the unimaginative old man who was the legal conscience of the Mingotts.

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 simple-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 simple
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.
On reaching home
he wrote a line to the Countess Olenska,
asking at what hour of the next day she could receive him,
and despatched it by a messenger-boy,
who returned presently with a word to the effect
that she was going to Skuytercliff the next morning to stay over Sunday with the van der Luydens,
but that he would find her alone that evening after dinner.
The note was written on a rather untidy half-sheet,
without date or address,
but her hand was firm and free.
He was amused at the idea of her week-ending in the stately solitude of Skuytercliff,
but immediately afterward felt
that there, of all places,
she would most feel the chill of minds rigorously averted from the “unpleasant.”

He was at Mr. Letterblair’s punctually at seven,
glad of the pretext for excusing himself soon after dinner.
He had formed his own opinion from the papers entrusted to him,
and did not especially want to go into the matter with his senior partner.
Mr. Letterblair was a widower,
and they dined alone,
copiously and slowly,
in a dark shabby room
hung with yellowing prints of “The Death of Chatham”
and “The Coronation of Napoleon.”
On the sideboard,
between fluted Sheraton knife-cases,
stood a decanter of Haut Brion,
and another of the old Lanning port
(the gift of a client),
which the wastrel Tom Lanning
had sold off a year or two before his mysterious and discreditable death in San Francisco—
an incident less publicly humiliating to the family than the sale of the cellar.
After a velvety oyster soup
came shad and cucumbers,
then a young broiled turkey with corn fritters,
followed by a canvas-back
with currant jelly and a celery mayonnaise.
Mr. Letterblair, who lunched on a sandwich and tea,
dined deliberately and deeply,
and insisted on his guest’s doing the same.
Finally,
when the closing rites had been accomplished,
the cloth was removed,
cigars were lit,
and Mr. Letterblair, leaning back in his chair and pushing the port westward,
said, spreading his back agreeably to the coal fire behind him:
“The whole family are against a divorce.
And I think rightly.”
Archer instantly felt himself
on the other side of the argument.
“But why, sir?
If there ever was a case—”
“Well—what’s the use?
She’s here—he’s there;
the Atlantic’s between them.
She’ll never get back a dollar more of her money than what he’s voluntarily returned to her:
their damned heathen marriage settlements
take precious good care of that.
As things go over there,
Olenski’s acted generously:
he might have turned her out without a penny.”
The young man knew this and was silent.
“I understand, though,”
Mr. Letterblair continued,
“that she attaches no importance to the money.
Therefore, as the family say,
why not let well enough alone?”
Archer had gone to the house an hour earlier
in full agreement with Mr. Letterblair’s view;
but put into words by this selfish, well-fed and supremely indifferent old man
it suddenly became the Pharisaic voice of a society wholly absorbed in barricading itself against the unpleasant.
“I think that’s for her to decide.”
“H’m—
have you considered the consequences if she decides for divorce?”
“You mean the threat in her husband’s letter?
What weight would that carry?
It’s no more than the vague charge of an angry blackguard.”
“Yes;
but it might make some unpleasant talk if he really defends the suit.”
“Unpleasant—!”
said Archer explosively.
Mr. Letterblair looked at him from under enquiring eyebrows,
and the young man, aware of the uselessness of trying to explain what was in his mind,
bowed acquiescently while his senior continued: “Divorce is always unpleasant.”
“You agree with me?” Mr. Letterblair resumed, after a waiting silence.
“Naturally,” said Archer.
“Well, then,
I may count on you;
the Mingotts may count on you;
to use your influence against the idea?”
Archer hesitated.
“I can’t pledge myself till I’ve seen the Countess Olenska,”
he said at length.
“Mr. Archer, I don’t understand you.
Do you want to marry into a family with a scandalous divorce-suit hanging over it?”
“I don’t think that has anything to do with the case.”
Mr. Letterblair put down his glass of port
and fixed on his young partner
a cautious and apprehensive gaze.
Archer understood that he ran the risk of having his mandate withdrawn,
and for some obscure reason
he disliked the prospect.
Now that the job had been thrust on him
he did not propose to relinquish it;
and, to guard against the possibility,
he saw that he must reassure the unimaginative old man who was the legal conscience of the Mingotts.