第 18 页

He was conscious that Madame Olenska was looking at him under lowered lids. "I have done what you wished--what you advised," she said abruptly.

"Ah--I'm glad," he returned, embarrassed by her broaching the subject at such a moment.

"I understand--that you were right," she went on a little breathlessly; "but sometimes life is difficult . . . perplexing. . ."

"I know."

"And I wanted to tell you that I DO feel you were right; and that I'm grateful to you," she ended, lifting her opera-glass quickly to her eyes as the door of the box opened and Beaufort's resonant voice broke in on them.

Archer stood up, and left the box and the theatre.

Only the day before he had received a letter from May Welland in which, with characteristic candour, she had asked him to "be kind to Ellen" in their absence. "She likes you and admires you so much--and you know, though she doesn't show it, she's still very lonely and unhappy. I don't think Granny understands her, or uncle Lovell Mingott either; they really think she's much worldlier and fonder of society than she is. And I can quite see that New York must seem dull to her, though the family won't admit it. I think she's been used to lots of things we haven't got; wonderful music, and picture shows, and celebrities--artists and authors and all the clever people you admire. Granny can't understand her wanting anything but lots of dinners and clothes--but I can see that you're almost the only person in New York who can talk to her about what she really cares for."

His wise May--how he had loved her for that letter! But he had not meant to act on it; he was too busy, to begin with, and he did not care, as an engaged man, to play too conspicuously the part of Madame Olenska's champion. He had an idea that she knew how to take care of herself a good deal better than the ingenuous May imagined. She had Beaufort at her feet, Mr. van der Luyden hovering above her like a protecting deity, and any number of candidates (Lawrence Lefferts among them) waiting their opportunity in the middle distance. Yet he never saw her, or exchanged a word with her, without feeling that, after all, May's ingenuousness almost amounted to a gift of divination. Ellen Olenska was lonely and she was unhappy.

这天晚上华莱剧院十分拥挤。

上演的剧目是《肖兰》，戴思•鲍西考尔特担任同名男主角，哈里•蒙塔吉和艾达•戴斯扮演一对情人。这个受人赞赏的英国剧团正处于鼎盛时期，《肖兰》一剧更是场场爆满。顶层楼座观众的热情袒露无遗；在正厅前座和包厢里，人们对陈腐观念与哗众取宠的场面报之一笑，他们跟顶层楼座的观众一样欣赏此剧。

剧中有一个情节对楼上楼下的观众都特别有吸引力。那是哈里•蒙塔古与戴斯小姐告别的伤心场面，两人简短的对话之后，他向她道别，转身要走。站在壁炉近旁、低头望着炉火的女演员穿的开司米连衣裙没有流行的环形物。连衣裙紧贴她高挑的身体，在她的脚部飘垂下来，形成了长长的曲线。她脖颈上围了一条窄窄的黑丝带，丝带的两端垂在背后。

她的求婚者转身离开她之后，她把两臂支在壁炉台上，低头用双手捂住了脸。他在门口停下来看她，接着又偷偷回来，抓起丝带，吻了一下，离开了屋子，而她却没听见他的动静，也没有改变姿势。帷幕就在静悄悄的分手场面中徐徐降下了。

阿切尔一直都是为这一特殊的场景去看《肖兰》这个剧的。他觉得，蒙塔古与艾达•戴斯所演的告别这一幕大美了，比他在巴黎看过的克罗塞特与布雷森特的表演、或在伦敦所看的马奇•罗伯逊与肯德尔的表演一点也不逊色。这一场面的含蓄、其无言的悲哀，比那些最著名的戏剧道白更使他感动。

这天晚上，这一小小的场面由于使他回想起——他不知为什么——他对奥兰斯卡夫人的告别而愈发感人。那是发生在大约一周之前，他们两人经过推心置腹的交谈之后。

两个场面之间很难找到相似之处，相关人物的容貌也毫无共同点。纽兰•阿切尔不敢妄称自己与那位仪表堂堂、年轻浪漫的英国演员有一点儿相像，而戴斯小姐是位身材高大的红发女子，她那张苍白可爱的丑脸也完全不同于埃伦•奥兰斯卡楚楚动人的颜容。阿切尔与奥兰斯卡夫人更不是在心碎的无言中分手的情人，他们是委托人与律师，经过交谈之后分手，而且交谈又使得律师对委托人的情况产生了最糟糕的印象。那么，两者之间有何相似之处，能使年轻人回想时激动得如此怦然心跳呢？原因似乎在于奥兰斯卡夫人那种神秘的天赋：她能让人联想到日常经验之外种种动人的悲剧性的东西。她几乎从来没说过一句会使他产生这种印象的话；这是她的一种内在气质——不是她神秘的异国背景的投影，便是她身上一种非同寻常的、感人肺腑的内在精神的外化。阿切尔一向倾向于认为，对于人们的命运而言，与逆来顺受的性格倾向相比，机遇与环境所起的作用是很小的。这种倾向他从一开始就在奥兰斯卡夫人身上察觉到了，那位沉静的、几乎是消沉的年轻女子给他的印象恰恰就是那种必定会发生不幸的人，不论她怎样退缩，怎样特意回避。有趣的是她曾经生活在戏剧性非常浓烈的氛围之中，以致使她自己那种引发戏剧性事件的性情却隐而不现了。正是她那种处变不惊的态度使他意识到她曾经受过大风大浪：她现在视为理所当然的那些事物就能说明她曾经反抗过的东西。

阿切尔离开她的时候深信奥兰斯基伯爵的指责并非没有根据，那个在他妻子过去的生活中扮演“秘书”角色的神秘人物，在帮助她逃亡后大概不会得不到报偿。她逃离的那种环境是不堪忍受的，难以形容、难以置信的。她年纪轻轻，吓坏了，绝望了——还有什么比感激救援者更顺理成章的呢？遗憾的是，在法律与世人的眼中，她的感激却将她置于与她可恶的丈夫同等的地位。阿切尔已经按照他的职责让她明白了这一点，他还让她明白了，心地单纯而又善良的纽约上流社会——她显然对它的仁爱抱了过高的期望——恰恰是一个她休想得到丝毫宽容的地方。

被迫向她讲明这一事实—— 而且目睹她决然地加以接受——曾使他感到痛苦不堪。他觉得自己被一种难以名状的妒忌与同情引向她一边，仿佛她默认的错误将她置于他的掌握之中，既贬低了她，却又使她让人喜爱。他很高兴她是向他披露了她的秘密，而不是面对莱特布赖先生冷冰冰的盘问，或者家人尴尬的众目睽睽。他紧接着便履行了自己的职责，向双方保证，她已经放弃了谋求离婚的主意，而她做出这一决定的原因是，她认识到那样做徒劳无益。他们听后感到无限欣慰，便不再谈论她本来可能给他们带来的那些“不愉快”的事。

“我早就相信纽兰会处理好这件事的，”韦兰太太得意地夸奖她未来的女婿说。而召他密谈的老明戈特太太对他的聪明能干表示热烈祝贺，然后又不耐烦地说：“蠢东西！我亲自告诉过她那纯粹是胡闹。当她有幸做已婚女子与伯爵夫人的时候，却想去冒充老处女埃伦•明戈特！”

这些事使年轻人想起与奥兰斯卡最后一次谈话的情形历历在目，以致在两位演员分手、幕布徐徐落下时，他眼睛里涌出了泪水。他站起来要离开剧院。

他走的时候，先转向身后面那一侧，结果却发现他思念着的那位夫人正坐在一个包厢里，跟博福特夫妇、劳伦斯•莱弗茨夫妇及另外一两个男人在一起。自从那天晚上分手之后，他还没有单独跟她讲过话，并且一直设法避免和她在一起。然而现在他们的目光相遇了，与此同时，博福特太太也认出了他，并懒懒地做了个邀请的表示；他不进她的包厢是不可能了。

博福特与莱弗茨为他让出地方，与博福特太太敷衍了几句——她一向喜欢保持优美的神态，而不愿多讲话——他坐在了奥兰斯卡夫人的身后。包厢里除了西勒顿•杰克逊先生别无他人，他正神秘兮兮地小声对博福特太太讲上星期天莱姆尔•斯特拉瑟斯太太招待会的事（有人报道说那儿曾经跳舞）。博福特太太面带完美的笑容听他的详尽叙述，她的头摆得角度恰到好处，使正厅前座那边能看到她的侧影。在这种掩护之下，奥兰斯卡夫人转过身来，低声开了口。

“你认为，”她说，一面朝舞台瞥了一眼，“明天早上他会送她一束黄玫瑰吗？”

阿切尔脸红了，他的心惊跳了一下。他一共拜访过奥兰斯卡夫人两次，每一次他都给她送去一盒黄玫瑰，每一次都没放名片。她以前从未提及过那些花，他以为她决不会想到送花人是他。现在，她突然夸奖那礼物，且把它与舞台上情意浓浓的告别场面联系起来，不由使他心中充满了激动与快乐。

“我也正想这件事——为了把这画面随身带走，我正要离开剧院，”他说。

令他意外的是，她脸上泛起一阵红晕，那红晕来得很不情愿且很忧郁。她低头看着她手套戴得齐齐整整的手上那架珍珠母的观剧望远镜，停了一会儿说：“梅不在的时候你干什么呢？”

“我专心工作，”他回答说，对这问题有点不悦。

遵循确立已久的习惯，韦兰一家人上周动身到圣奥古斯丁去了。考虑到韦兰先生有可能发生支气管过敏，他们总是到那儿度过冬末。韦兰先生是个温厚寡言的人，凡事没有主张，却有许多习惯。这些习惯任何人不得干扰，习惯之一就是要求妻子和女儿要永远陪他进行一年一度的南方旅行。保持家庭乐趣的连续不断对他心灵的平静是至关重要的，假如韦兰太太不在身边提醒，他会不知道发刷放在什么地方，不知道怎样往信封上贴邮票。

由于家庭成员间相敬相爱，还由于韦兰先生是他们偶像崇拜的中心，妻子和梅从来没有让他独身一人去过圣奥古斯丁。他的两个儿子都从事法律工作，冬季不能离开纽约，一贯是在复活节前去与他汇合，然后一起返回。

阿切尔要想评论梅陪伴父亲的必要性是根本不可能的。明戈特家家庭医生的声誉主要建立在治疗肺炎病方面，而韦兰先生却从未患过此病，因此他坚持去圣奥古斯丁的主张是不可动摇的。本来，梅的订婚消息是打算等她从佛罗里达回来后再宣布的，但提前公布的事实也不能指望韦兰先生改变他的计划。阿切尔倒是乐于加入旅行者的队伍，与未婚妻一起呆上几个星期，晒晒太阳，划划船。但他同样受到风俗习惯的束缚，尽管他职业上任务并不重，可假如他在仲冬季节请求度假，整个明戈特家族会认为他很轻浮。于是他听天由命地接受了梅的出行，并认识到，这种屈从必将成为他婚后生活的重要组成部分。

他觉察到奥兰斯卡夫人透过低垂的眼帘在看他。“我已经按你希望的——你建议的做了，”她突然说。

“哦——我很高兴，”他回答说，因为她在这样的时刻提这个话题而觉得尴尬。

“我明白——你是正确的，”她有点喘息地接着说。“可有时候生活很艰难……很复杂。”

“我知道。”

“我当时想告诉你，我确实觉得你是对的；我很感激你，”她打住了话头。这时包厢的门被打开，博福特洪亮的声音打断了他们，她迅速把观剧望远镜举到眼睛上。

阿切尔站起来，离开包厢，离开了剧院。

他前一天刚收到梅•韦兰的一封来信，在信中，她以特有的率直要求他在他们不在时“善待埃伦”。“她喜欢你，崇拜你——而你知道，虽然她没有说，她仍然非常孤单、不快。我想外婆是不理解她的，洛弗尔•明戈特舅舅也不理解她，他们确实以为她比她实际上更世故，更喜欢社交。我很明白，她一定觉得纽约很沉闷，虽然家里人不承认这一点。我觉得她已经习惯了许多我们没有的东西：美妙的音乐、画展，还有名人——艺术家、作家以及你崇拜的所有聪明人。除了大量的宴会、衣服，外婆不理解她还需要别的什么东西——但我看得出，在纽约，差不多只有你一个人能跟她谈谈她真正喜欢的东西。”

他的贤慧的梅——他因为这封信是多么爱她！但他却没打算按信上说的去做：首先，他太忙；而且作为已经订婚的人，他不愿大显眼地充当奥兰斯卡夫人的保护人。他认为，她知道怎样照顾自己，这方面的能力远远超出了天真的梅的想象。她手下有博福特，有范德卢顿先生像保护神似地围着她转，而且中途等待机会的候选人（劳伦斯•莱弗茨便是其中之一）要多少有多少。然而，没有哪一次见着她、哪一次跟她交谈不让他感觉到，梅的真诚坦率几乎称得上是一种未卜先知的天赋。埃伦•奥兰斯卡的确很孤单，而且很不快活。

Chapter 14

As he came out into the lobby Archer ran across his friend Ned Winsett, the only one among what Janey called his "clever people" with whom he cared to probe into things a little deeper than the average level of club and chop-house banter.

He had caught sight, across the house, of Winsett's shabby round-shouldered back, and had once noticed his eyes turned toward the Beaufort box. The two men shook hands, and Winsett proposed a bock at a little German restaurant around the corner. Archer, who was not in the mood for the kind of talk they were likely to get there, declined on the plea that he had work to do at home; and Winsett said: "Oh, well so have I for that matter, and I'll be the Industrious Apprentice too."

They strolled along together, and presently Winsett said: "Look here, what I'm really after is the name of the dark lady in that swell box of yours--with the Beauforts, wasn't she? The one your friend Lefferts seems so smitten by."

Archer, he could not have said why, was slightly annoyed. What the devil did Ned Winsett want with Ellen Olenska's name? And above all, why did he couple it with Lefferts's? It was unlike Winsett to manifest such curiosity; but after all, Archer remembered, he was a journalist.

"It's not for an interview, I hope?" he laughed.

"Well--not for the press; just for myself," Winsett rejoined. "The fact is she's a neighbour of mine--queer quarter for such a beauty to settle in--and she's been awfully kind to my little boy, who fell down her area chasing his kitten, and gave himself a nasty cut. She rushed in bareheaded, carrying him in her arms, with his knee all beautifully bandaged, and was so sympathetic and beautiful that my wife was too dazzled to ask her name."

A pleasant glow dilated Archer's heart. There was nothing extraordinary in the tale: any woman would have done as much for a neighbour's child. But it was just like Ellen, he felt, to have rushed in bareheaded, carrying the boy in her arms, and to have dazzled poor Mrs. Winsett into forgetting to ask who she was.

"That is the Countess Olenska--a granddaughter of old Mrs. Mingott's."

"Whew--a Countess!" whistled Ned Winsett. "Well, I didn't know Countesses were so neighbourly. Mingotts ain't."

"They would be, if you'd let them."

"Ah, well--" It was their old interminable argument as to the obstinate unwillingness of the "clever people" to frequent the fashionable, and both men knew that there was no use in prolonging it.

"I wonder," Winsett broke off, "how a Countess happens to live in our slum?"

"Because she doesn't care a hang about where she lives--or about any of our little social sign-posts," said Archer, with a secret pride in his own picture of her.

"H'm--been in bigger places, I suppose," the other commented. "Well, here's my corner."

He slouched off across Broadway, and Archer stood looking after him and musing on his last words.

Ned Winsett had those flashes of penetration; they were the most interesting thing about him, and always made Archer wonder why they had allowed him to accept failure so stolidly at an age when most men are still struggling.

Archer had known that Winsett had a wife and child, but he had never seen them. The two men always met at the Century, or at some haunt of journalists and theatrical people, such as the restaurant where Winsett had proposed to go for a bock. He had given Archer to understand that his wife was an invalid; which might be true of the poor lady, or might merely mean that she was lacking in social gifts or in evening clothes, or in both. Winsett himself had a savage abhorrence of social observances: Archer, who dressed in the evening because he thought it cleaner and more comfortable to do so, and who had never stopped to consider that cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest items in a modest budget, regarded Winsett's attitude as part of the boring "Bohemian" pose that always made fashionable people, who changed their clothes without talking about it, and were not forever harping on the number of servants one kept, seem so much simpler and less self-conscious than the others. Nevertheless, he was always stimulated by Winsett, and whenever he caught sight of the journalist's lean bearded face and melancholy eyes he would rout him out of his corner and carry him off for a long talk.

Winsett was not a journalist by choice. He was a pure man of letters, untimely born in a world that had no need of letters; but after publishing one volume of brief and exquisite literary appreciations, of which one hundred and twenty copies were sold, thirty given away, and the balance eventually destroyed by the publishers (as per contract) to make room for more marketable material, he had abandoned his real calling, and taken a sub-editorial job on a women's weekly, where fashion- plates and paper patterns alternated with New England love-stories and advertisements of temperance drinks.

On the subject of "Hearth-fires" (as the paper was called) he was inexhaustibly entertaining; but beneath his fun lurked the sterile bitterness of the still young man who has tried and given up. His conversation always made Archer take the measure of his own life, and feel how little it contained; but Winsett's, after all, contained still less, and though their common fund of intellectual interests and curiosities made their talks exhilarating, their exchange of views usually remained within the limits of a pensive dilettantism.

"The fact is, life isn't much a fit for either of us," Winsett had once said. "I'm down and out; nothing to be done about it. I've got only one ware to produce, and there's no market for it here, and won't be in my time. But you're free and you're well-off. Why don't you get into touch? There's only one way to do it: to go into politics."

Archer threw his head back and laughed. There one saw at a flash the unbridgeable difference between men like Winsett and the others--Archer's kind. Every one in polite circles knew that, in America, "a gentleman couldn't go into politics." But, since he could hardly put it in that way to Winsett, he answered evasively: "Look at the career of the honest man in American politics! They don't want us."

"Who's `they'? Why don't you all get together and be `they' yourselves?"

Archer's laugh lingered on his lips in a slightly condescending smile. It was useless to prolong the discussion: everybody knew the melancholy fate of the few gentlemen who had risked their clean linen in municipal or state politics in New York. The day was past when that sort of thing was possible: the country was in possession of the bosses and the emigrant, and decent people had to fall back on sport or culture.

"Culture! Yes--if we had it! But there are just a few little local patches, dying out here and there for lack of--well, hoeing and cross-fertilising: the last remnants of the old European tradition that your forebears brought with them. But you're in a pitiful little minority: you've got no centre, no competition, no audience. You're like the pictures on the walls of a deserted house: `The Portrait of a Gentleman.' You'll never amount to anything, any of you, till you roll up your sleeves and get right down into the muck. That, or emigrate . . . God! If I could emigrate . . ."

Archer mentally shrugged his shoulders and turned the conversation back to books, where Winsett, if uncertain, was always interesting. Emigrate! As if a gentleman could abandon his own country! One could no more do that than one could roll up one's sleeves and go down into the muck. A gentleman simply stayed at home and abstained. But you couldn't make a man like Winsett see that; and that was why the New York of literary clubs and exotic restaurants, though a first shake made it seem more of a kaleidoscope, turned out, in the end, to be a smaller box, with a more monotonous pattern, than the assembled atoms of Fifth Avenue.

The next morning Archer scoured the town in vain for more yellow roses. In consequence of this search he arrived late at the office, perceived that his doing so made no difference whatever to any one, and was filled with sudden exasperation at the elaborate futility of his life. Why should he not be, at that moment, on the sands of St. Augustine with May Welland? No one was deceived by his pretense of professional activity. In old-fashioned legal firms like that of which Mr. Letterblair was the head, and which were mainly engaged in the management of large estates and "conservative" investments, there were always two or three young men, fairly well-off, and without professional ambition, who, for a certain number of hours of each day, sat at their desks accomplishing trivial tasks, or simply reading the newspapers. Though it was supposed to be proper for them to have an occupation, the crude fact of money-making was still regarded as derogatory, and the law, being a profession, was accounted a more gentlemanly pursuit than business. But none of these young men had much hope of really advancing in his profession, or any earnest desire to do so; and over many of them the green mould of the perfunctory was already perceptibly spreading.