Chapter 1

It was a January evening in the early 1870s. At the Academy of Music in New York, Christine Nilsson was singing in the opera Faust.

People were already talking of a new opera house, far uptown, "above the Forties." It would match the grand, costly houses of Europe. But the world of fashion still came back, winter after winter, to the dear old Academy. Its boxes were worn, red and gold.

Lovers of old ways valued the Academy just because it was small and uncomfortable. They liked it so. The discomfort kept out the "new people." New York feared them, yet felt drawn to them. Soft-hearted people loved the Academy for its memories. Music lovers loved it for its excellent sound. Good sound was rare, even in halls built for hearing music.

It was Madame Nilsson's first night that winter. The daily papers already called such a crowd "a very brilliant audience." The fashionable world came through the wet, snowy streets, in carriages.

Some came in a private brougham, a small closed carriage with one horse. Some came in the wide open family landau, a larger carriage. Others came in the humbler but more useful "Brown coupe," a plain carriage for hire.

Coming in a Brown coupe was almost as honorable as coming in your own carriage. But to leave in one was far better. With a small joke about being democratic, you could jump into the first Brown carriage in line.

You did not wait for your own driver. His nose, red from cold and strong drink, would show under the roof of the Academy. The man who owned the Brown carriages understood Americans. They want to leave their fun even faster than they want to reach it.

When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box, the garden scene was just starting. There was no reason for the young man to be late. He ate dinner at seven, alone with his mother and sister.

Afterward he smoked in the dark Gothic library. It had black wood bookcases and carved chairs. It was the only room where Mrs. Archer allowed smoking.

But New York was a great city. In great cities, it was "not the thing" to come early to the opera. What was or was not "the thing" ruled Newland Archer's New York. It ruled him as dark, unexplained fears once ruled his fathers' fathers, thousands of years ago.

The second reason for his lateness was his own. He was at heart a dilettante, a man of fine, careful tastes. He liked to hold a coming pleasure in his mind first. Often the thought of a pleasure gave him a finer joy than the thing itself. This was most true of quiet, delicate joys. Most of his joys were like that.

The moment he waited for was rare and perfect. No stage manager could plan his entry better. He came in just as the great singer sang, "He loves me — he loves me not — he loves me!" She was pulling apart a daisy, a small white flower. Her notes fell as clear as drops of water.

Of course, she did not really sing "he loves me." She sang "M'ama!" For the world of music had a firm law that no one questioned. When Swedish artists sang French operas, the German words must be turned into Italian. Then English speakers could understand more clearly.

This seemed natural to Newland Archer, like all the other rules of his life. He parted his hair with two silver-backed brushes, marked with his initials in blue. He never appeared in society without a flower in his coat. Best of all was a gardenia.

"M'ama ... non m'ama ..." sang the singer. Then, "M'ama!" with one last burst of winning love. She pressed the torn daisy to her lips. She raised her large eyes to the face of Capoul, the small brown-haired Faust.

He wore a tight coat of purple velvet and a cap with a feather. He tried hard to look as pure and true as the simple girl he meant to ruin. He did not quite succeed.

Newland Archer leaned against the back wall of the club box. He turned his eyes from the stage and studied the far side of the house.

Straight across from him was the box of old Mrs. Manson Mingott. She was now far too fat to come to the opera herself. On fashionable nights, younger family members always appeared there for her.

At the front sat Mrs. Lovell Mingott, the wife of the old lady's son. Beside her sat Mrs. Welland, the old lady's daughter. A little behind these two grand women sat a young girl in white. Her eyes were fixed with joy on the lovers on the stage.

The boxes always fell silent during the Daisy Song. When Madame Nilsson's "M'ama!" rang out over the quiet house, a warm pink rose in the girl's face. It spread to the roots of her fair hair, and down her neck to her modest white dress. At her breast was a single gardenia.

She dropped her eyes to the great bunch of lilies-of-the-valley on her knee.

Newland Archer watched her touch the flowers softly with her gloved finger-tips. He drew a deep breath of satisfied vanity. His eyes went back to the stage.

No money was spared on the stage scene. Even people who knew the opera houses of Paris and Vienna called it beautiful.

The front of the stage was covered in bright green cloth. Behind it rose neat round hills of soft green, like wool. On these hills stood small trees shaped like orange trees, but covered with big pink and red roses.

Giant pansies, much larger than the roses, sprang up from the green below the trees. They looked like the flower-shaped pen-wipers that church ladies made as gifts for popular ministers.

Here and there, a daisy grew from the branch of a rose tree. It seemed an early sign of the wonders of Mr. Luther Burbank, the plant scientist of later years.

In the center of this magic garden stood Madame Nilsson. She wore soft white cloth with lines of pale blue. A small bag hung from the blue band of her dress. Her heavy yellow hair lay carefully on each side of her breast.

With lowered eyes, she listened to M. Capoul's burning words of love. Again and again, by word or look, he pointed to the low window of the brick house on the stage. Each time, she pretended sweetly that she did not understand him.

"The darling!" thought Newland Archer. His glance flew back to the young girl with the lilies-of-the-valley. "She doesn't even guess what it's all about."

He studied her young face, lost in the music, and felt a warm rush of ownership. Pride in his own man's knowledge mixed with tender respect for her pure, unknowing heart.

"We'll read Faust together ... by the Italian lakes ..." he thought. In a soft, unclear way, he mixed their marriage trip with the great books of the world. As her husband, he would have the proud right to open those books to her.

Only that afternoon, May Welland let him guess that she "cared." In New York, "to care" was the holy word for a girl admitting her love. Already his mind jumped past the ring, the first kiss, and the marriage music from Lohengrin. He saw her at his side in some magic old corner of Europe.

He did not want the future Mrs. Newland Archer to be a fool. With the help of his own fine company, she would grow into a woman of quick social skill.

She should hold her own among the most popular young married women. In that set, the custom was to draw men's attention and then push it away with a laugh.

Deep at the bottom of his vanity lay a wish. He sometimes came close to seeing it. He wished his wife to be as clever and as pleasing as a certain married lady. That lady's charms held his mind for two mildly troubled years.

Of course, his wife must have none of the weakness that almost ruined that poor lady's life. The same weakness had upset his own plans for a whole winter.

How could such a wonder of fire and ice be created? How could it live on in a hard world? He never took time to think this out. He was happy to hold the view without looking into it. All the other gentlemen in the club box held the same view, and he knew it.

They came in one after another, with brushed hair and flowers on their coats. Each wore a black evening coat with a white waistcoat under it. They greeted him in a friendly way. Then they turned their opera-glasses on the circle of ladies below. These ladies were the product of the system the men believed in.

In matters of mind and art, Newland Archer felt himself far above these chosen men of old New York. He probably read more, thought more, and even saw more of the world than any of them. One by one, each man showed himself the smaller. But together, they were "New York."

The habit of standing with other men made him accept their teaching on everything called moral. He felt, deep down, that going his own way would be trouble, and also very bad form.

"Well — upon my soul!" said Lawrence Lefferts. He turned his opera-glass sharply away from the stage.

Lawrence Lefferts was, on the whole, New York's chief judge of "form." He probably gave more time than any other man to this deep question. But study alone could not explain his easy, complete power.

His high forehead was bald. His fine fair moustache had a perfect curve. His long feet, in shining shoes, ended a lean and well-made body. He wore fine clothes carelessly and carried his height with lazy ease. The knowledge of "form" must be born in such a man.

A young admirer once put it this way. "Nobody can tell a man just when to wear a black tie with evening clothes, and when not to. Nobody but Larry Lefferts." There was also the question of pumps against shining-leather "Oxfords." On that question, no one ever doubted his word.

"My God!" he said. Then he silently handed his opera-glass to old Sillerton Jackson.

Newland Archer followed Lefferts's eyes and saw, with surprise, the cause of his cry. A new figure was entering old Mrs. Mingott's box. It was a slim young woman, a little shorter than May Welland. Small rings of brown hair lay close around her face. They were held in place by a narrow band of diamonds.

That headband gave her what people then called a "Josephine look."

The cut of her dress carried out the same idea. It was of dark blue velvet, caught up boldly under her breast, as if for the stage. A band with a large old-fashioned clasp held it there.

The woman in this unusual dress did not seem to notice the attention it drew. She stood a moment in the center of the box. She spoke with Mrs. Welland about the right to take her seat at the front right corner.

Then, with a small smile, she gave way. She sat down in line with Mrs. Lovell Mingott, Mrs. Welland's sister-in-law, who sat in the opposite corner.

Mr. Sillerton Jackson gave the opera-glass back to Lawrence Lefferts. The whole club box turned to him, waiting for what he would say. For old Mr. Jackson was as great a judge of "family" as Lawrence Lefferts was of "form."

He knew how every great New York family was related to every other. He could explain the hardest questions.

How were the Mingotts tied, through the Thorleys, to the Dallases of South Carolina? How was the older branch of the Philadelphia Thorleys related to the Albany Chiverses? And the Albany Chiverses must never be confused with the Manson Chiverses of University Place.

He could also name the chief mark of every family. The younger Leffertses, the Long Island ones, were famous for holding on to their money. The Rushworths had a sad family habit of foolish marriages. And in every second generation of the Albany Chiverses, madness returned.

So their New York relations always refused to marry them. The one unhappy exception was poor Medora Manson. Everybody knew her story. But then, her mother was a Rushworth.

Besides this forest of family trees, Mr. Jackson carried something more in his narrow old head. Under his soft silver hair lay most of the dark secrets of New York society. He knew the hidden shames and strange stories of the last fifty years. They burned slowly under society's calm surface.

His knowledge reached far, and his memory was sharp. People said he alone could tell you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was. He alone knew what became of handsome Bob Spicer, old Mrs. Manson Mingott's father.

Bob Spicer disappeared in a strange way, less than a year after his marriage. He took a large sum of money that others had trusted him to keep safe. He went on the very day that a beautiful Spanish dancer took ship for Cuba. Great crowds went night after night to watch her at the old opera house on the Battery.

But these secrets, and many more, stayed locked inside Mr. Jackson. His sharp sense of honor never let him repeat anything told to him in private. And a name for keeping secrets gave him more chances to learn new ones.

So the club box waited, watching, while Mr. Sillerton Jackson handed back Lawrence Lefferts's opera-glass. For a moment he studied the eager group in silence. His pale blue eyes, dim with age, moved slowly over their faces. Then he gave his moustache a thoughtful twist, and said simply, "I did not think the Mingotts would try it."