On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York.Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances "above the Forties," of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and ...
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On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York.Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances "above the Forties," of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thus keeping out the "new people" whom New York was beginning to dread and yet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historic associations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics, always so problematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music.It was Madame Nilsson's first appearance that winter, and what the daily press had already learned to describe as "an exceptionally brilliant audience" had gathered to hear her, transported through the slippery, snowy streets in private broughams, in the spacious family landau, or in the humbler but more convenient "Brown coupe." To come to the Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way of arriving as in one's own carriage; and departure by the same means had the immense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion to democratic principles) to scramble into the first Brown conveyance in the line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose of one's own coachman gleamed under the portico of the Academy. It was one of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to have discovered that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.
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Edith Wharton's classic novel "The Age of Innocence" is a quietly sad tale of two anachronistic people. Ellen Olenska is eminently modern; she simply does not see the social restrictions and rules that govern everyone around her. She lives her life according to her own code of honor, and has no concept of "the way things are done." Newland Archer, on the other hand, is painfully aware of social trappings and cannot overcome them to live in accordance with his inner beliefs. Because of this, Archer strikes the reader as slightly less noble than Ellen. He's something of a coward, and as the protagonist of the story, his constant waffling lends drama to the narrative. At its core, "The Age of Innocence" is the deftly told story of two people who find each other too late. Both are paired to other people; one is unwilling to cause an innocent person to be hurt, the other totally willing but ultimately chooses the safe, staid path. I've made it sound very dour, but the book is actually a lively examination of the trap that was the rigid social structure of the time.
