第 16 页

"Lord love us--three whole days at Skuytercliff!" Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered. "You'd better take all your furs, and a hot-water-bottle."

"Why? Is the house so cold?" she asked, holding out her left hand to Archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it.

"No; but the missus is," said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man.

"But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go."

"Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people."

She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer.

"Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here."

"What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly.

"Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them."

She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it.

"I do think," she went on, addressing both men, that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day."

"It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me."

"How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?"

She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes.

"Why not now?"

"It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour."

"Do you call it late?"

She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while."

"Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: "I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step.

For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind.

"You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest.

"Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt."

"But you care for such things?"

"Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up."

She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies.

"I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to."

"You want to try not to?"

"Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here."

Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said.

She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!"

Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances.

"I want to get away from it all," she insisted.

He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me."

"Ah?"

"That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm."

She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!"

Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph.

"I am here to talk about it," he repeated.

She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure.

"Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy.

After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past."

"I understand that."

Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?"

"First--" he hesitated--"perhaps I ought to know a little more."

She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband-- my life with him?"

He made a sign of assent.

"Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases."

"Certainly not."

They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell.

"I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length.

"Well--can there be anything more abominable?"

"No."

She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand.

"Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--"

"Yes--?"

"He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--"

"If--?"

"I mean: no matter how unfounded they were."

She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear.

"What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"

It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old- fashioned ideas."

She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't."

"Never?"

"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"

She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came.

A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer.

"Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me."

He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--"

"OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently.

"I hope so."

"And you take their view?"

He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?"

"Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak.

He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility-- the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?"

"But my freedom--is that nothing?"

It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--"

"Oh, yes," she said indifferently.

"Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society."

"No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts.

"The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the ugly reality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. Since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that he was trying to probe into her secret. Better keep on the surface, in the prudent old New York way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal.

"It's my business, you know," he went on, "to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them. The Mingotts, the Wellands, the van der Luydens, all your friends and relations: if I didn't show you honestly how they judge such questions, it wouldn't be fair of me, would it?" He spoke insistently, almost pleading with her in his eagerness to cover up that yawning silence.

She said slowly: "No; it wouldn't be fair."

The fire had crumbled down to greyness, and one of the lamps made a gurgling appeal for attention. Madame Olenska rose, wound it up and returned to the fire, but without resuming her seat.

Her remaining on her feet seemed to signify that there was nothing more for either of them to say, and Archer stood up also.

"Very well; I will do what you wish," she said abruptly. The blood rushed to his forehead; and, taken aback by the suddenness of her surrender, he caught her two hands awkwardly in his.

"I--I do want to help you," he said.

"You do help me. Good night, my cousin."

He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew them away, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate.

老派的纽约上流社会一般在7点钟吃晚饭，饭后走访的习惯虽然在阿切尔这伙人中受到嘲笑，但仍然广泛流行。年轻人从韦弗利广场漫步沿第五大街上行，漫长的大街上空无一人，只有几辆马车停在里吉•奇弗斯家门前（他家在为公爵举行宴会）。偶尔有一个身穿厚外套、戴着手套的老绅士的身影登上一所棕石住宅的门阶，消失在煤气灯光明亮的门厅里。当阿切尔穿过华盛顿广场的时候，他见到老杜拉克先生正去拜访他的表亲达戈内特夫妇；在西10街转弯处，看见了他事务所的斯基沃思先生，此人显然正要去拜访拉宁小姐。沿第五大街再上行一段，他又看见博福特出现在自家的门阶上，在明亮的灯光下，黑色的身影十分突出。博福特走下台阶进了他的私人马车，朝一个秘密的、很可能是不宜说出的目的地驶去。今晚没有歌剧演出，也没有人举办宴会，所以博福特的外出无疑带有偷偷摸摸的性质。阿切尔在心中把它与列克星顿大街远处的一所小住宅联系起来，那所房子里前不久才出现了饰有缎带的窗帘和花箱，在它新油漆过的门前，经常可以见到范妮•琳的淡黄色马车等在那儿。

在构成阿切尔太太的圈子的又尖又滑的小金字塔外面，有一个地图上很可能没有标记的区域，里面住着画家、音乐家和“搞写作的人”。人类的这一部分散兵游勇从来没有表示过与上流社会结构融为一体的愿望。尽管人们说他们生活方式奇特，但他们大多数人都还品行端正，只不过不喜欢与人往来。梅多拉•曼森在她兴旺时期曾创办过一个“文学沙龙”，但不久便因为文人们不肯光顾而销声匿迹。

其他人也做过相同的尝试，其中有个姓布兰克的家庭——一位热情健谈的母亲和三个紧步其后尘的邋遢女儿。在她们家可以见到埃德温•布思、帕蒂和威廉•温特，还有演莎士比亚戏剧的新演员乔治•里格诺尔德，几个刊物编辑，以及音乐与文学评论家。

阿切尔太太与她那个小圈子对这些文化人感到有点畏惧：他们为人古怪，捉摸不透，而且在他们生活与思想的背景中有些不为人知的东西。姓阿切尔的这个阶层对文学与艺术非常看重，阿切尔太太总是不遗余力地告诉孩子们；过去，社交界包括了华盛顿•欧文、费兹一格林•哈勒克及写了《犯罪的小仙女》的诗人这样的人物，那时候是多么有礼貌、有教养。那一代最有名的作家都是“绅士”，而那些继承他们事业的无名之辈或许也有绅士的情感，但他们的出身，他们的仪表和头发，以及他们与舞台及歌剧的密切关系，使得老纽约的准则对他们统统不适用了。

“在我做姑娘的时候，”阿切尔太太经常说，“我们认识巴特利与运河街一带的每一个人，而且只有我们认识的人才有马车。那时判断一个人的身份易如反掌，现在可没法说了，我宁愿试都不试。”

惟独老凯瑟琳•明戈特有可能跨过了这道深渊，因为她没有道德偏见，且对那些敏感的差别持有与新贵们几乎相同的冷漠态度。然而她从未翻过一本书、看过一幅画，而且，她喜欢音乐也只是因为它使她回想起她在意大利时的那些狂欢之夜，她在杜伊勒里宫那段辉煌的日子。与她同样勇敢的博福特本来可能促成融合，但他那豪华住宅与穿丝袜的男仆成了非正式交际的障碍。而且他跟明戈特太太一样目不识丁，他认为“搞写作的人”不过是些拿了钱为富人提供享乐的家伙。而能够对他施加影响的那些富人，没有一个曾怀疑过这种观点。

纽兰•阿切尔从记事的时候起就知道这些事情，并把它们看作他那个世界的组成部分。他知道在有些上流社会里，画家。诗人、小说家、科学家、甚至大演员都像公侯一样受到追捧。过去他时常想象，置身于以谈论梅里美（他的《致无名氏的信》使他爱不释手）、萨克雷、布朗宁和威廉•莫里斯等大作家为主要话题的客厅里，会有怎样一种感觉，然而那种事在纽约是不可能的，想起来真令人不安。阿切尔认识很多“搞写作的人”、音乐家和画家。他在“世纪”或另一些刚成立的小型的音乐或戏剧俱乐部里与他们见面。在那儿，他欣赏他们，而在布兰克家中他却厌烦他们，因为他们和一些热情高涨、俗里俗气的女人混在一起，她们像捕获的怪物似的在他们身边走来走去。甚至在他与内德•温赛特最兴奋的交谈之后，他总是觉得，如果说他的天地很小，那么他们的也不大，而要拓展任何一方的空间，惟一的途径是使他们在生活方式上自然而然地融为一体。

他之所以想到这些事，是因为他想对奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人曾经生活过、忍受过——或许还品尝过其神秘的快乐的上流社会进行一番设想。他记得她曾怀着怎样的乐趣告诉他，她祖母明戈特和韦兰夫妇反对她住在专供“搞写作的人”居住的放荡不羁的文化人的街区。令她的家人反感的不是冒险，而是贫穷，但那种阴影她却早已忘记了，她以为他们是认为文学名声不好。

她本人对文学倒没有什么顾虑，她的客厅里（一般认为最不宜放书的地方）四处散乱的书籍虽然主要是小说作品，但像保罗•布尔热、休斯曼及龚古尔兄弟这些新名字都曾引起阿切尔的兴趣。他一边思考着这些事情一边走到了她的门前，又一次意识到她反转他的价值观的奇妙方式，意识到如果他要在她目前的困境中发挥作用，必须设想自己进入与过去有着惊人差别的境界。