第 17 页

纳斯塔西娅开了门，脸上露出神秘的笑容。门厅的凳子上放着一件貂皮村里的外套，上面摆着一顶折叠的深色丝制歌剧礼帽，衬里有“J.B.”两个金字，还有一条丝巾。这几件贵重物品一准是朱利叶斯•博福特的财产。

阿切尔愤怒了：他非常气愤，差一点要在名片上划几个字一走了之。但他随即想起在给奥兰斯卡写便函的时候，由于过于审慎而没有讲希望私下见她的话，因此，如果她已经向别的客人敞开了大门，这只能怪他自己。于是他昂首走进客厅，决心要让博福特感到他在这儿碍手碍脚，从而把他挤走。

银行家正倚着壁炉架立着，炉架上挂着一块旧的刺绣帷慢，由几个枝形铜烛台压住，烛台里盛着发黄的教堂用的蜡烛。他挺着胸脯，两肩靠在炉架上，身体的重量支撑在一只穿漆皮鞋的大脚上。阿切尔进屋时他正面带笑容低头看着女主人，她坐在一张与烟囱摆成直角的沙发上。一张堆着鲜花的桌子在沙发后面形成一道屏障，年轻人认得出那些兰花与杜鹃是来自博福特家温室的赠品。奥兰斯卡夫人面朝鲜花半倚半坐，一只手托着头，她那宽松的袖筒一直把胳臂露到肘部。

女士们晚上会客通常都穿一种叫做“晚餐便装”的衣服：一件鲸须丝做的紧身内衣，领口很小，用花边的皱褶填在开口处，贴紧的袖子上带一个荷叶边，刚好露出手腕，以展示金手镯或丝带。而奥兰斯卡夫人却不顾习俗，穿了一件红丝绒的长睡袍，睡袍上端是光滑的黑毛皮镶边，环绕下巴一周并顺着前胸垂下来。阿切尔记起他最近一次访问巴黎时曾见过新画家卡罗勒斯•杜兰——他的轰动了巴黎美术展览会——的一幅画像，上面那位夫人就穿了一件这种像刀鞘一样的浓艳睡袍，下巴偎依在毛皮中。晚上在气氛热烈的客厅里穿戴毛皮，再加上围拢的脖颈和裸露的手臂，给人一种任性与挑逗的感觉。但不可否认，那效果却十分悦人。

“哎呀，太好了——到斯库特克利夫呆整整3天！”阿切尔进屋时博福特正以嘲笑的口吻大声说。“你最好带上所有的毛皮衣服，外加一个热水瓶。”

“为什么？那房子很冷吗？”她问道，一面向阿切尔伸出左手，那诡秘的样子仿佛表示期待他去吻它。

“不是房子冷，而是女主人冷，”博福特说着，一面心不在焉地朝年轻人点点头。

“可我觉得她很好，是她亲自来邀请我的，奶奶说我当然一定得去。”

“奶奶当然会那样说。我看，你要是错过下星期天我为你安排的德尔莫尼柯家小型牡蛎晚餐，那真是太可惜了，坎帕尼尼、斯卡尔奇，还有好多有趣的人都会去呢。”

她疑惑地看看银行家，又看看阿切尔。

“啊——我真想去！除了在斯特拉瑟斯太太家的那天晚上，我来这儿以后一位艺术家还没见过呢。”

“你想见什么样的艺术家？我认识两个画家，人都很好，假如你同意，我可以带你去见他们。”阿切尔冒昧地说。

“画家？纽约有画家吗？”博福特问，那口气表示，既然他没有买他们的画，他们就不可能算是画家。奥兰斯卡夫人面带庄重的笑容对阿切尔说：“那太好了。不过我实际上指的是戏剧艺术家。歌唱家、演员、音乐家等。在我丈夫家里老是有很多那种人的。”

她讲“我丈夫”时，好像根本没有什么不祥的东西与这几个字相关，而且那口气几乎是在惋惜已失去的婚姻生活的快乐。阿切尔困惑地看着她，不知她是出于轻松还是故作镇静，才在为解除婚姻而拿自己的名誉冒险时如此轻易地提到了它。

“我就是认为，”她接下去对着两位男士说，“出乎意料的事才更加令人愉快。天天见同一些人也许是个错误。”

“不管怎么说，是太沉闷了；纽约真是沉闷得要死，”博福特抱怨说。“而正当我设法为你活跃一下气氛时，你却让我失望。听我说——再好好想一想吧！星期天是你最后的机会了，因为坎帕尼尼下周就要到巴尔的摩和费城去。我有个幽静的地方，还有一架斯坦韦钢琴，他们会为我唱个通宵。”

“太妙了！让我考虑考虑，明天上午写信告诉你行吗？”

她亲切地说，但话音里有一点收场的暗示。博福特显然感觉到了，但由于不习惯遭人拒绝，他仍站在那儿盯着她，两眼之间凝成一道顽固的皱纹。

“干吗不现在呢？”

“这个问题太重要啦，时间又这么晚了，我不能仓促决定呀。”

“你认为时间很晚了吗？”

她冷冷地回视他一眼说：“是的；因为我还要同阿切尔先生谈一会儿正事。”

“噢，”博福特生气道。她的语气里没有一点恳求的意味，他轻轻耸了耸肩，恢复了镇静。他拉起她的手，熟练地吻了一下，到了门口又大声喊道：“听我说，纽兰，假如你能说服伯爵夫人留在城里，你当然也可一块儿去吃晚饭。”说完，他迈着傲慢有力的脚步离开了客厅。

有一会儿功夫，阿切尔以为莱特布赖先生一定已把他来访的事告诉了她；不过她接着说的毫不相干的话又改变了他的想法。

“这么说，你认识画家？你对他们的环境很熟悉？”她带着好奇的目光问道。

“哦，不完全是这样。我看艺术家们在这里没有什么环境，哪一个都没有。他们更像一层薄薄的外缘。”

“可你喜欢这类东西吗？”

“非常喜欢。我在巴黎和伦敦的时候，从不放过一次展览。我尽量跟上潮流。”

她低头看着从她那身绸缎长裙底下露出来的缎靴的靴尖。

“我过去也非常喜欢：我的生活里充满了这些东西。可现在，我想尽量不去喜欢它们。”

“你想尽量不去喜欢？”

“不错，我想全部放弃过去的生活，变得跟这里每个人完全一样。”

阿切尔红了脸说：“你永远也不会跟这里的每个人一样。”

她抬起端正的眉毛，停了一会儿说：“啊，别这样说。你若是明白我多么讨厌与众不同就好了！”

她的脸变得像一张悲剧面具那样忧郁。她向前躬了躬身子，用两只纤瘦的手紧紧抱住双膝，目光从他身上移开，投向了神秘的远方。

“我想彻底摆脱过去的生活，”她坚决地说。

他等了一会，清了清喉咙说：“我知道。莱特布赖先生对我讲了。”

“啊？”

“我来就是为了这件事。他让我来——你知道，我在事务所工作。”

她看上去有点意外，接着，眼睛里又露出喜色。“你是说你可以为我处理这件事？我可以跟你谈，不用跟莱特布赖先生？啊，这会轻松多了！”

她的语气感动了他，他的信心也伴随自我满足而倍增。他发觉她对博福特讲有正经事要谈纯粹是为了摆脱他。而赶走博福特不啻是一种胜利。

“我来这儿就是谈这件事的，”他重复说。

她坐着沉默不语，脑袋依然由放在沙发背上的一只胳臂支撑着。她的脸看上去苍白、黯淡，仿佛被那身鲜红的衣服比得黯然失色了。他突然想到她是个可悲甚至可怜的人。

“现在我们要面对严酷的事实了，”他想，同时感到自己心中产生了他经常批评他母亲及其同龄人的那种本能的畏缩情绪。他处理例外情况的实践真是太少了！连其中所用的词汇他都不熟悉，仿佛那些话都是用在小说当中或舞台上的。面对即将发生的情况，他觉得像个小男孩似的局促不安。

停了一会儿，奥兰斯卡夫人出乎意料地感情爆发了。“我想获得自由，我想清除过去的一切。”

“我理解。”

她脸上露出喜色。“这么说，你愿意帮我了？”

“首先——”他迟疑地说，“也许我应该了解多一点。”

她似乎很惊讶。“你了解我丈夫——我跟他的生活吧？”

他做了个认可的手势。

“哎——那么——还有什么呢？在这个国家难道可以容忍那种事情吗？我是个新教徒——我们的教会并不禁止在这种情况下离婚。”

“当然不。”

两个人又都默不作声了。阿切尔觉得奥兰斯基伯爵那封信像幽灵一样在他俩中间讨厌地做着鬼脸。那封信只有半页，内容正如他同莱特布赖谈到时所说的那样：一个发怒的恶棍含糊其辞的指责。然而在它背后有多少事实呢？只有奥兰斯基伯爵的妻子能说清楚。

“你给莱特布赖先生的文件我已经看了一遍，”他终于说道。

“唔——还有比那更讨厌的东西吗？”

“没有了。”

她稍稍改换一下姿势，抬起一只手遮住她的眼睛。

“当然，你知道，”阿切尔接着说，“假如你丈夫要想打官司——像他威胁的那样——”

“是吗——？”

“他可能讲一些——一些可能不愉——对你不利的事情：公开讲出来，被到处传播，伤害你，即使——”

“即使——怎么样？”

“我是说：不论那些事情多么没有根据。”

她停顿了很长一会。他不想眼睛一直盯在她遮住的脸上，因而有充足的时间把她放在膝盖上的另一只手精确的形状铭刻在心里，还有无名指及小指上那3枚戒指的种种细节；他注意到其中没有订婚戒指。

“那些指责，即便他公之于众，在这里对我能有什么危害呢？”

他差一点就要大声喊出：“我可怜的孩子——在这儿比任何地方危害都大呀！”然而，他却用他自己听起来都像莱特布赖先生的口气回答说：“与你过去居住的地方相比，纽约社交界是个很小的天地。而且，不管表面现象如何，它被少数——思想守旧的人统治着。”

她一语不发，他接着说：“我们关于结婚、离婚的思想特别守旧，我们的立法支持离婚——而我们的社会风俗却不。”

“决不会支持？”

“唔——决不会，只要那位女子有一点点不利于她的表面现象，只要她由于任何违背常规的行为而使自己受到——受到含沙射影的攻击——不管她受到怎样的伤害，也不管她多么无可指责。”

她的头垂得更低了，他又处于等待之中，紧张地期待一阵愤怒的爆发，或至少是短短一声表示抗议的喊叫。然而什么都没发生。

一个小旅行钟得意似地在她近旁嘀嗒直响，一块木柴烧成两半，升腾起一片火星，寂静的客厅仿佛在忧虑地与阿切尔一起默默地等待着。

“不错，”她终于嗫嚅道，“我的家人对我就是这样说的。”

他皱起眉头说：“这并不奇怪——”

“是我们的家人，”她纠正自己的话说；阿切尔红了脸。“因为你不久就是我的表亲了，”她接着温柔地说。

“我希望如此。”

“你接受他们的观点吗？”

听了这话，他站起身来，在屋子里踱步，两眼茫然地盯住一幅衬着旧红锦缎的画像，然后又犹豫不决地回到她身边。他无法对她说：“是的，假如你丈夫暗示的情况是真的，或者你没有办法驳斥它。”

他正要开口，她却接着说：“你要说真心话——”

他低头望着炉火说：“好吧，我说真心话——面对一堆可能——不，肯定——会引起的肮脏闲话，你能得到什么好处呢？”

“可我的自由——难道就无所谓了吗？”

这时，他忽然想到，信中的指责是真的，她确曾想嫁给和她一起犯罪的那个人。假如她真有过那么一个计划，国法是不会容许的。可他该怎么告诉她呢？仅仅由于怀疑她有那种想法，就已使他对她严厉、不耐烦起来。“可你现在不是跟空气一样地自由吗？”他回答说。“谁能碰你一下呢？莱特布赖先生对我说，经济问题已经了断——”

“噢，是的，”她漠然地说。

“既然如此，再去招惹有可能无穷无尽的痛苦与不快，这值得吗？想一想那些报纸有多么恶毒！那完全是愚蠢的、狭隘的、不公正的——可谁也无法改变社会呀。”

“不错，”她默认地说。她的声音那样轻、那样凄凉，突然使他对自己那些冷酷的想法感到懊悔。

“在这种情况下，个人几乎总是要成为所谓集体利益的牺牲品：人们对维系家庭的任何常规都抱住不放——假如有什么常规，那也就是保护儿童。’他漫无边际地说下去，把跑到嘴边的陈词滥调统统倒出来，极力想掩盖她的沉默似乎已经暴露无遗的丑恶事实。既然她不肯或者不能说出一句澄清事实的话，那么，他的希望就是别让她以为他是想刺探她的秘密。按照老纽约精明老到的习惯，对于不能治愈的伤口，与其冒险揭开，还不如保持原状为好。

“我的职责是帮助你，使你能像那些最喜爱你的人一样看待这些事情，”他接着说。“像明戈特夫妇、韦兰夫妇、范德卢顿夫妇，你所有的亲戚朋友：假如我不实事求是地向你说明他们是怎样看待这类问题的，那我就是不公平了，不是吗？”他急于打破那令人惊恐的沉默，几乎是在恳求她似地，滔滔不绝地说着。

她慢声慢气地说：“是的，那会不公平的。”

炉火已经暗淡，一盏灯咯咯响着请求关照。奥兰斯卡夫人起身把灯头拧上来，又回到炉火旁，但没有重新就坐。

她继续站在那儿，似乎表示两个人都已没有什么可说的了，于是阿切尔也站了起来。

“很好；我会照你希望的去做，”她突然说。热血涌上了他的额头，被她突然的投降吓了一跳，他笨拙地抓起她的双手。

“我——我真的想帮助你，”他说。

“你是在帮助我。晚安，我的表弟。”

他俯身将嘴唇放在她的手上，那双手冷冰冰地毫无生气。她把手抽开，他转身向门口走去，借着门厅暗淡的灯光找到他的外套和礼帽，然后便走进了冬季的夜色中，心中涌出迟到的滔滔话语。

Chapter 13

It was a crowded night at Wallack's theatre.

The play was "The Shaughraun," with Dion Boucicault in the title role and Harry Montague and Ada Dyas as the lovers. The popularity of the admirable English company was at its height, and the Shaughraun always packed the house. In the galleries the enthusiasm was unreserved; in the stalls and boxes, people smiled a little at the hackneyed sentiments and clap- trap situations, and enjoyed the play as much as the galleries did.

There was one episode, in particular, that held the house from floor to ceiling. It was that in which Harry Montague, after a sad, almost monosyllabic scene of parting with Miss Dyas, bade her good-bye, and turned to go. The actress, who was standing near the mantelpiece and looking down into the fire, wore a gray cashmere dress without fashionable loopings or trimmings, moulded to her tall figure and flowing in long lines about her feet. Around her neck was a narrow black velvet ribbon with the ends falling down her back.

When her wooer turned from her she rested her arms against the mantel-shelf and bowed her face in her hands. On the threshold he paused to look at her; then he stole back, lifted one of the ends of velvet ribbon, kissed it, and left the room without her hearing him or changing her attitude. And on this silent parting the curtain fell.

It was always for the sake of that particular scene that Newland Archer went to see "The Shaughraun." He thought the adieux of Montague and Ada Dyas as fine as anything he had ever seen Croisette and Bressant do in Paris, or Madge Robertson and Kendal in London; in its reticence, its dumb sorrow, it moved him more than the most famous histrionic outpourings.

On the evening in question the little scene acquired an added poignancy by reminding him--he could not have said why--of his leave-taking from Madame Olenska after their confidential talk a week or ten days earlier.

It would have been as difficult to discover any resemblance between the two situations as between the appearance of the persons concerned. Newland Archer could not pretend to anything approaching the young English actor's romantic good looks, and Miss Dyas was a tall red-haired woman of monumental build whose pale and pleasantly ugly face was utterly unlike Ellen Olenska's vivid countenance. Nor were Archer and Madame Olenska two lovers parting in heart-broken silence; they were client and lawyer separating after a talk which had given the lawyer the worst possible impression of the client's case. Wherein, then, lay the resemblance that made the young man's heart beat with a kind of retrospective excitement? It seemed to be in Madame Olenska's mysterious faculty of suggesting tragic and moving possibilities outside the daily run of experience. She had hardly ever said a word to him to produce this impression, but it was a part of her, either a projection of her mysterious and outlandish background or of something inherently dramatic, passionate and unusual in herself. Archer had always been inclined to think that chance and circumstance played a small part in shaping people's lots compared with their innate tendency to have things happen to them. This tendency he had felt from the first in Madame Olenska. The quiet, almost passive young woman struck him as exactly the kind of person to whom things were bound to happen, no matter how much she shrank from them and went out of her way to avoid them. The exciting fact was her having lived in an atmosphere so thick with drama that her own tendency to provoke it had apparently passed unperceived. It was precisely the odd absence of surprise in her that gave him the sense of her having been plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelled against.

Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski's accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who figured in his wife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was frightened, she was desperate-- what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence.

To have to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly- confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them.

"I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"

These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre.

In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box.

Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.

"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?"

Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure.

"I was thinking of that too--I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said.

To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "What do you do while May is away?"

"I stick to my work," he answered, faintly annoyed by the question.

In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him.

As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him.

It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May's accompanying her father. The reputation of the Mingotts' family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible. Originally, it had been intended that May's engagement should not be announced till her return from Florida, and the fact that it had been made known sooner could not be expected to alter Mr. Welland's plans. Archer would have liked to join the travellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating with his betrothed; but he too was bound by custom and conventions. Little arduous as his professional duties were, he would have been convicted of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan if he had suggested asking for a holiday in mid-winter; and he accepted May's departure with the resignation which he perceived would have to be one of the principal constituents of married life.