Chapter 20

"Of course we must dine with Mrs. Carfry, dearest," Newland said.

May looked at him with a worried frown. They sat at breakfast in their London rooms. Heavy metal dishes covered the table. Outside, rain fell on the empty autumn streets.

The Archers knew only two people in London. Yet they carefully stayed away from both. Old New York people thought this showed proper pride. One must never push foreign friends to notice one abroad.

Mrs. Archer and Janey always followed this rule in Europe. They met friendly travelers with cool, closed faces. They almost never spoke to foreigners. Hotel and railway workers were the main exceptions.

They treated unknown Americans with even greater coldness. A Chivers, Dagonet, or Mingott was safe. Everyone else needed a proper introduction. Without one, mother and daughter stayed alone together for months.

Still, even the greatest care sometimes failed. One night they stopped at Botzen. Two English sisters occupied the room across the hall. Janey already knew their names, clothes, and social position.

Then one sister knocked on the Archers' door. Mrs. Carfry was very ill in her chest. Her sister, Miss Harle, asked for some medicine to rub on her skin.

Mrs. Archer traveled with a full box of medicines. She quickly found what they needed. Mrs. Carfry was truly sick, and the sisters traveled alone. The Archer women gave them warm things and other comforts.

Their maid also helped care for Mrs. Carfry. In time, the sick woman became well again. The Archers expected never to see the sisters afterward.

Mrs. Archer thought further attention would be improper. She had simply helped a foreign woman by chance. She would never demand a friendship in return.

Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle understood nothing of this view. They felt thankful forever to the kind Americans from Botzen. During later trips, they found many chances to meet them again.

They always learned when the Archers would pass through London. Then they waited for them at Brown's Hotel. Their warm attention slowly formed a lasting friendship.

The four women also shared quiet interests. All grew ferns in Wardian cases, small glass plant boxes. All made lace and read the same family memories. They also discussed the best church speakers in London.

Knowing the sisters changed London for Mrs. Archer. Before long, the friendship became a family duty. Newland even sent them an invitation to his wedding.

The sisters answered with a pretty gift. It was a group of dried Alpine flowers under glass. Later, Newland and May sailed for England.

At the dock, Mrs. Archer gave one final order. "You must take May to see Mrs. Carfry."

The young couple did not mean to obey. Yet Mrs. Carfry found them and invited them to dinner. Now May frowned over that invitation, her tea, and her breakfast bread.

"It is easy for you, Newland," she said. "You know them. I shall feel shy among all those strangers. And what shall I wear?"

Newland leaned back and smiled at her. She looked more beautiful than ever. She also looked like Diana, the old Roman hunting goddess.

The wet English air gave her cheeks a deeper color. It also softened the slight hardness in her young face. Perhaps happiness made the change. It shone through her like a light under ice.

"What will you wear, dearest?" he asked. "A whole box of clothes came from Paris last week."

"Yes, of course. I mean that I cannot choose. I have never dined out in London. I do not want to look foolish."

He tried to understand her trouble. "Do Englishwomen dress differently from everyone else at dinner?"

"Newland, what a strange question! They wear old dance dresses to the theater. They do not even cover their heads."

"Perhaps they wear new dance dresses at home. Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle will not. They will wear caps and soft shawls, like Mother."

"Yes, but what will the other women wear?"

"Nothing as fine as your clothes, dear."

He wondered why clothes suddenly interested her so deeply. Her worry reminded him of Janey. May pushed back her chair and sighed.

"That is dear of you, Newland. But it does not help me."

Then he had an idea. "Why not wear your wedding dress? Surely that cannot be wrong."

"Oh, dearest, I wish it were here! It went to Paris for changes. Worth has not sent it back."

Newland stood and looked outside. "The fog is lifting. We could hurry to the National Gallery. We might still see some pictures."

The Newland Archers were traveling home after three months abroad. May called their wedding journey "perfect happiness" in letters to her friends.

They did not visit the Italian Lakes. Newland could not imagine May in that place. After a month with Paris dressmakers, she chose other pleasures.

She wanted to climb mountains in July. In August, she wanted to swim. They followed her plan exactly.

They spent July at Interlaken and Grindelwald. Once or twice, Newland pointed south from the mountains. "Italy lies over there," he said.

May stood among beds of small blue flowers. She smiled brightly. "We could go next winter. If only you did not need to be in New York."

In August, they stayed at Etretat on the Normandy coast. Someone called it quiet and full of old charm. May swam there and enjoyed long walks.

Travel interested her even less than Newland expected. Once her clothes were ready, each place became another outdoor field. She walked, rode, swam, and learned the new game of lawn tennis.

They returned to London for two weeks. Newland needed to order his own clothes. By then, May openly wanted to sail home.

Only theaters and shops interested her in London. Even the theaters pleased her less than the singing cafés in Paris. Those cafés stood under flowering trees on the Champs Élysées.

The couple watched the crowd from a raised eating place. Below sat bright women who took money from men. This was new to May. Newland explained only the clean parts of the songs.

During the journey, Newland returned to old ideas about marriage. Following custom was easier than testing his fine new beliefs. He treated May as his friends treated their wives.

Before marriage, he liked to speak about women's freedom. Now he saw little use in freeing May. She did not know she lacked freedom.

If he gave her freedom, she would return it to him. She would offer it as a loving wife. Her natural pride would keep the gift from seeming low.

One day, she might take that gift back. She could do so if she thought it helped him. She had shown that strength before their wedding.

Yet only a shocking act by Newland could cause such a break. May's trust made that act almost impossible. She would remain true, brave, and free from anger.

Her goodness required the same from him. He felt tied to her rules by her love. This drew his mind back toward its old paths.

May's simple nature was not small or mean. Its few clear lines matched her fine face. She became the quiet goddess of his old customs. In her, his oldest duties seemed holy again.

These qualities did not make foreign travel exciting. Yet they made May a pleasant and easy friend. Newland saw how well they would suit their life at home.

He did not fear that home would close around him. His life of art and thought could continue outside it. Inside, May would never make the air feel small.

Coming home to her would not feel like entering a shut room. It would not end a long walk in fresh air. Later, children would fill the empty corners in both lives.

These thoughts followed him during their slow drive. They traveled from Mayfair to South Kensington. Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle lived there.

Newland also wished to avoid the dinner. His family traveled to look at places, not people. They acted as if other travelers did not exist.

Only once did he forget that rule. After Harvard, he spent several bright weeks in Florence. He joined a group of Americans who lived like Europeans.

They danced all night with titled ladies in great houses. They spent half the day playing for money at a fashionable club. Newland thought it was great fun, but also unreal.

It felt like a public holiday behind masks. The women told every stranger about their difficult love affairs. Fine young officers and painted old men filled their stories.

They seemed too hot, rich, and strongly scented. They were like strange flowers grown under glass. Newland's interest in them soon died.

He could never bring May among such people. No other foreign group seemed eager to receive him. So the problem rarely returned.

Soon after reaching London, Newland met the Duke of St. Austrey. The Duke knew him at once and spoke warmly. "Come and see me, won't you?"

A proud American could not treat that as a real invitation. Newland never went. The meeting led nowhere.

The Archers also avoided May's English aunt. She was a rich banker's wife in Yorkshire. They even delayed London until autumn.

They did not want to arrive during the busy social season. Unknown English family members might think them hungry for rank. That would have seemed shameful.

"There will probably be nobody at Mrs. Carfry's," Newland told May. "London is empty now. And you have made yourself far too beautiful."

They sat together in a hansom, a small two-wheeled carriage for hire. May wore a perfect sky-blue cloak. Soft white feathers edged it.

She looked too clean and bright for London's dirt. Newland almost felt wrong for bringing her outside.

"I do not want them thinking we dress like wild people," she said.

Her scorn might have hurt Pocahontas herself. Newland again saw an American woman's deep respect for clothes. Even women who knew little of society shared it.

"Their clothes are their armor," he thought. "They protect them from the unknown. They also challenge it."

At last he understood May's serious care over her clothes. She would not tie one pretty ribbon to charm him. Yet she treated each order from Paris like a holy act.

The dinner party was as small as Newland expected. Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle received them in a long, cold room. Another older woman sat there under a shawl.

The Vicar was there too. A Vicar was a church minister. He was a warm, friendly man and the older woman's husband.

Mrs. Carfry also presented her silent young nephew. Beside him stood a small dark man with lively eyes. His name was M. Rivière.

M. Rivière was the young man's tutor, a private teacher. Mrs. Carfry said his French name with special care.

The room and its people looked dark and without color. Then May entered like a swan covered by sunset. She seemed larger, fairer, and richer than ever.

Her dress made a soft sound with every movement. Her cheeks glowed. Newland knew these signs came from a child's deep shyness.

Her helpless eyes asked him a question. What could these strangers expect her to discuss? At the same time, her beauty made them equally afraid.

Beauty often gives courage to men who see it. Soon the Vicar and M. Rivière tried to help May relax.

Their efforts did not save the dinner. May tried to seem comfortable by talking only about home. Every example came from New York.

Her beauty invited answers, but her talk froze them. The Vicar soon stopped trying. M. Rivière spoke excellent English and continued bravely.

At last, the women went upstairs. Everyone at the table seemed glad. The Vicar drank one glass of port, a strong sweet wine.

Then he hurried away to a meeting. The shy nephew was weak and often ill. The family sent him to bed.

Newland and M. Rivière remained over their wine. Soon Newland talked more freely than he had in months. Only Ned Winsett once gave him this kind of evening.

The nephew once faced a serious lung disease. He left Harrow and went to Switzerland. For two years, Lake Leman's softer air helped him.

The boy loved books, so his family placed him with M. Rivière. The tutor brought him back to England. He would stay until the boy entered Oxford next spring.

After that, M. Rivière needed another job. Newland could hardly believe he would wait long. The man had many interests and gifts.

M. Rivière was about thirty. His face was thin and ugly. May would certainly call it common.

Yet each idea gave his face new life. Nothing in his quick manner seemed cheap or foolish. His mind made his plain face powerful.

His father died young after serving his country abroad. The family once planned the same public work for the son. But M. Rivière loved books too strongly.

He first worked for newspapers. Then he tried to become an author and failed. After several other jobs, he taught English boys in Switzerland.

Earlier, he lived for a long time in Paris. He visited the Goncourt brothers' room for writers. Maupassant once advised him not to write.

Even that advice seemed like a great honor to Newland. M. Rivière also spoke often with Mérimée at his mother's home.

The tutor was always very poor and often worried. He supported his mother and his unmarried sister. His hopes of writing books seemed over.

In money, his life was no better than Ned Winsett's. Yet his mind lived in a far richer world. He said no lover of ideas needed an empty mind there.

Poor Winsett slowly starved for that very life. Newland almost envied M. Rivière for being rich in thought. Money could not measure such wealth.

"Surely freedom of thought is worth almost everything," M. Rivière said. "A man must not sell his power to judge. He must keep his own opinions."

"That is why I left newspaper work. I chose duller work as a teacher and private secretary. The daily labor is hard, of course."

"But I keep my moral freedom. In French, we call it one's _quant à soi_. It means the private part of oneself."

"When I hear good talk, I can join it. I risk only my own opinions. Or I can listen and answer inside myself."

His lively eyes held Newland's face. "Good talk has no equal. Ideas are the only air worth breathing."

"So I never regretted leaving public service or newspapers. Both ask a man to give up part of himself."

M. Rivière lit another cigarette. "A man must look life directly in the face. That is worth living in a garret."

A garret was a small cheap room under a roof. The image pleased Newland. Yet M. Rivière smiled at its hard truth.

"Still, a man must earn enough to pay for that room. Growing old as a private teacher freezes the mind. Any private service may do that."

"A small public job in Bucharest might feel just as cold. Sometimes I think I must make one enormous jump."

He paused before asking his question. "Could America offer me an opening? Could New York?"

Newland stared at him in surprise. This man knew the Goncourts and Flaubert. He thought ideas were life's necessary air.

How could New York use such a man? His best qualities would block his success there. Newland did not know how to explain this.

"New York?" he asked. "Must it be New York?"

He could imagine no paid work for M. Rivière there. Good talk seemed the man's only real need. New York offered little of it.

Color rose under M. Rivière's dark skin. "I thought it was your greatest city. Is thought not more active there?"

He feared that Newland heard a request for help. So he quickly pulled back. "I only spoke a passing thought. I see no present chance."

Then he stood without any shame or discomfort. "Mrs. Carfry will think I should take you upstairs."

On the drive home, Newland thought deeply about the evening. His hour with M. Rivière put new air into his lungs. At first, he wanted to invite him to dinner tomorrow.

Then Newland remembered that he was married. Married men did not always follow their first wishes.

He tested the idea with May. "That young tutor is very interesting. We talked wonderfully after dinner about books and ideas."

May woke from one of her quiet dreams. Before marriage, Newland read many meanings in those silences. Six months now taught him that most held none.

"The little Frenchman?" she asked coldly. "Did he not seem very common?"

Newland understood her hidden disappointment. She dressed for a fine London dinner. Instead, she met a church minister and a French teacher.

This was not simple love of rank. Old New York felt that foreign lands owed it proper respect. The Carfrys would receive finer guests in Fifth Avenue.

Newland was already troubled, so he answered sharply. "Common where?"

"Almost anywhere outside his schoolroom," May said. "Such people are always uncomfortable in society. Still, perhaps I cannot tell whether he is clever."

Newland disliked both "common" and "clever" from her mouth. Yet he feared his growing habit of finding faults in her.

Her view never changed. Everyone from his childhood shared it. He once thought it necessary, though not important.

Until lately, he knew no proper woman with another view. A man must marry a proper woman. That was simply the rule.

"Then I shall not invite him to dinner," Newland said, laughing.

May looked confused. "Invite the Carfrys' tutor?"

"Not with the Carfrys, if you dislike that. But I wanted another talk. He is seeking work in New York."

May's surprise grew, but not her interest. Newland almost thought she feared a foreign sickness in him.

"Work in New York? What kind? People do not keep French tutors there. What does he want to do?"

"He mainly wants good talk," Newland answered, with a sharp little joke.

May laughed and understood that joke at once. "Oh, Newland, how funny! Is that not perfectly French?"

In the end, Newland felt glad she settled the question. Another dinner would lead back to New York. He still could not place M. Rivière anywhere in that city.

Then a cold understanding came to him. Many future questions might end in this quiet way. May would not forbid things. Her view would simply make them disappear.

Newland paid the driver and followed May inside. Her long dress moved behind her. He comforted himself with an old saying.

The first six months were always hardest in marriage. After that, perhaps husband and wife smoothed each other's sharp corners.

But May already pressed on Newland's corners. And those were the very parts he most wanted to keep.