Twenty-six years later in a new century, Newland Archer, age 57, is sitting in his library on East 39th Street, having just returned from a ceremony for new galleries in the Metropolitan Museum. He is in a reflective mood, brought about by his memories of meeting the Countess there years ago. In his library he remembers May announcing her pregnancy; their delicate son, Dallas, being christened and later taking his first steps; their daughter, Mary, becoming engaged to one of Reggie Chivers’ dull sons and her radiant face as Newland kissed her here on her wedding day; and his conversations with Theodore Roosevelt, a family friend, who stayed overnight. Roosevelt talked Newland into running for public office, as Ned Winsett had often urged him to do. Spending only one term in the State Assembly, Newland has settled into the role of elder statesman, consulted on projects for the city and become involved in philanthropic work.
His marriage to May was dull but dignified, and he mourns her sincerely; she had died two years before of the infectious pneumonia through which she had nursed their third child, Bill, back to health. Newland looks at May’s first picture, still in its place near the inkstand, and muses that she remained unchanged—like her photo—until her death. Even the children hesitated to take away her ingenuous thoughts with their cold, new-century realities. The telephone rings and Newland speaks with Dallas, his architect son who is calling long distance from Chicago. Dallas’ voice sounds so close it is amazing, and Newland listens as Dallas asks him to go to Europe with him on a job. Newland’s son is to be married on June 5 to Fanny Beaufort, daughter of Julius and Fanny Ring, who married years ago following the death of Regina Beaufort. Times have changed and no one criticizes this union.
Newland accompanies his son to Paris. All those years ago, he told Ellen he would see her in Paris, but he never kept that promise. Although he thought of himself as a dashing and romantic figure then, he now realizes he is a middle-aged relic. Ellen never went back to her husband and never married either. The Count died, leaving her a widow, living in Paris.
Dallas’ fiancée, Fanny, asked him to do several things, one of which was to see the Countess Olenska who had befriended her when she was in school in Europe. So Dallas tells his father he has accepted an invitation for them to call on the countess. He reveals to Newland that he knows the countess was once “your Fanny.” Shocked, Newland asks him why he thinks that. Dallas simply states that his dying mother told him that Newland had “given up the thing [he] most wanted” and revealed her knowledge of his love for the countess. Newland is stunned to realize that his dutiful and unimaginative wife had known all along, and he is touched that she pitied him for his sacrifice.
Dallas leaves to visit Versailles and Newland roams Paris, thinking of the amazing life Ellen must have had there with museums, art galleries, glittering acquaintances, and a freer world than New York City. He visits the Louvre because she probably haunted that art gallery and he thinks of himself at age 57; the sweet love of springtime is no longer possible, but perhaps they could have the mature companionship of autumn. Later that day, Newland and Dallas walk to the Invalides and pause outside Ellen’s apartment. The day is fading and the view is peaceful and pleasant. Newland sits down on a bench and convinces Dallas to go up to Ellen’s apartment without him, as he wants to sit a few minutes and collect his thoughts. Dallas is more like the young Newland that Ellen will remember from thirty years ago. After his son leaves, Newland imagines what that meeting will be like and realizes, “It’s more real to me here than if I went up.” The sun slowly goes down and he stands up and walks back to his hotel.
