第 32 页

阿切尔的心脏奇怪地猛然一抽，停止了跳动，就像以前那次一样，好像“啪”地关上一道门，把他与外界隔开了。但这种间断一定是极短暂的，因为不一会儿他就听到梅多拉回答问题的声音，那问题显然是他恢复了声音后提出的。

“不，我不打算呆在这儿。我要和布兰克一家去他们普茨茅斯美妙的幽居地。博福特太好了，今天早晨他派他那一流的跑马来接我，所以我至少来得及看一眼里吉纳的花园聚会；不过今晚我就要回去过田园生活了。布兰克一家真是别出心裁，他们在普茨茅斯租了一所古朴的农居，邀请了一群有代表性的人物。”她躲在帽沿下的头轻轻一低，脸色微红地补充说： “这个星期，阿加松•卡弗博士将要在那儿主持一系列内心活动的会议呢。与这儿世俗消遣的快乐场面的确是个鲜明的对比——不过，我一直就生活在对比中！对我来说，最要命的就是单调无聊。我老是对埃伦讲：要当心无聊，它是一切罪恶的根源。但我那可怜的孩子正经历一种亢奋状态，对世事深恶痛绝。我想你知道吧，她拒绝了所有到纽波特来的邀请，甚至拒绝和她的祖母明戈特在一起。连我也很难说服她随我去布兰克家，真让人难以置信！她过着一种不正常的病态生活。唉，她若是听了我的话就好了……那时候门还开着……那时候一切都还有可能……我们何不下去看看吸引人的比赛？我听说梅也是选手之一呢。”

博福特正穿过草地，从帐篷那儿朝他们漫步走来。他高大、笨拙的身体被紧紧扣在一件伦敦长礼服中，扣眼上别着一朵自己种的兰花。阿切尔已有两三个月没见他了，对他外貌的变化感到吃惊。在夏天毒辣辣的阳光下，他脸上血色过重，有些浮肿，若不是他那挺直的宽肩膀，他走路的姿势就像个吃得过多、穿得过厚的老人。

关于博福特的流言有很多。春天，他乘坐自己的新游艇去西印度群岛进行了一次长途旅游。据说，在他所到之处，总有一位颇似范妮•琳的女士伴随。那艘游艇建造于克莱德河，装备了贴瓷砖的浴室和其他一些闻所未闻的奢侈品，听说花了他50万美元。回来时他送给妻子的珍珠项链像赎罪的贡品般华美绝伦。博福特的财产足以承受这种挥霍，然而令人不安的谣言却经久不息，不仅在第五大街而且还在华尔街流传。有人说他投机铁路亏了本；另一些人则说，他被她那一行里一个最贪得无厌的人敲了竹杠。对于每一次破产危机的报道，博福特总是以新的挥霍作答：修建一排崭新的兰花花房，购买一群新赛马，或是在他的画廊里添置一幅新的梅索尼埃或卡巴耐尔的画。

他面带平时那种半是嘲讽的微笑走近侯爵夫人和纽兰。“嗨，梅多拉！那些跑马干得怎么样？40分钟，嗯？……唔，不算坏，这就不会吓着你了。”他和阿切尔握了握手，然后随他们转过身去。他站在曼森太太另一侧，低声说了几句他们的同伴听不见的话。

侯爵夫人用她那奇特的外语回答：“我有什么办法？”这句法语更让博福特愁眉紧锁；但他瞧着阿切尔时却装出一副好模样，面带祝贺的笑容说：“瞧，梅要夺得头奖了。”

“啊，这么说头奖还是留在自家人手上了，”梅多拉用流水般的声音说。这时他们已走到帐篷跟前，博福特太太裹着少女戴的红紫色棉布围巾和飘逸的面纱迎了上来。

恰巧梅•韦兰从帐篷里走了出来。她一身素装，腰间束一条淡绿色的丝带，帽子上绕着常春藤编织的花环，那副狄安娜女神般超然的神态就跟订婚那天晚上走进博福特家舞厅时一模一样。此刻，她目光中似乎没有一丝思绪，心里也没有任何感觉。她丈夫虽知道她两者兼备，却再次惊异于她的超凡脱俗。

她手握弓箭，站在草地上的粉笔标记后面，将弓举至肩头，瞄准目标。她的姿态十分典雅，一出场便博得一阵轻轻的赞美声。阿切尔感到了所有者的喜悦，正是这种感觉时常诱骗他沉浸于片刻的幸福。她的对手有里吉•奇弗斯太太、梅里家的姑娘们，还有索利家、达戈内特家及明戈特家几位面色红润的女孩，她们焦急地站在她身后，十分可爱地围成一堆。棕色的头发、金色的支架、浅色的棉布服饰及带花环的帽子，在起射线上方混合成一道柔和的彩虹。沐浴着盛夏的光辉，姑娘们个个年轻漂亮，却没有哪一个像他妻子那样如宁芙般从容自如。这时，只见她绷紧肌肉，笑眉一颦，全神贯注地使足了劲。

“天呀！”阿切尔只听劳伦斯•莱弗茨说，“没人会像她那样拿弓的。”博福特回击道：“不错。可只有这样她才能射中靶子。”

阿切尔感到一阵无端的愤怒。男主人对梅“优雅举止”略带轻蔑的恭维本应是做丈夫的希望听到的，一个内心粗鄙的人发现她缺乏魅力，这不过是又一次证明她的品质高尚而已。然而，这些话却使他心里有一丝震动。假如“优雅”到了最高境界竟变成其反面，帷幕后面竟是空洞无物，那将怎么办呢？他看着梅——她最后一轮射中靶心后，正面色红润、心态平静地退出场地——心中暗自想道：他还从未揭开过那片帷幕。

她坦然地接受对手和同伴的祝贺，表现出最最优雅的姿态。没有人会嫉妒她的胜利，因为她让人觉得即使她输了，也会这样心平气和。然而当她的目光遇到丈夫的眼睛时，他那愉快的神色顿然使她容光焕发。

韦兰太太那辆精工制作的马车正等候着他们。他们在四散的马车中穿行离场，梅握着缰绳，阿切尔坐在她身旁。

下午的阳光仍然滞留在美丽的草坪上与灌木丛中，车辆排成两行在贝拉乌大街来往行进，有四轮折篷马车，轻便马车，双座活篷马车及双人对座马车。车上载着盛装的女士、绅士们，他们或是从博福特的花园聚会上离去，或是结束了每天下午的海滨兜风赶着回家。

“我们去看看外婆好吗？”梅突然提议说。“我想亲自告诉她我得了奖。离吃饭时间还早着呢。”

阿切尔默许了，她拨马沿纳拉甘塞特大街下行，横穿斯普林街后，又向远处多石的荒地驶去。就在这片无人问津的地方，一贯无视先例与节俭的老凯瑟琳，在她年轻的时候选中一块俯瞰海湾的便宜地面，为自己建了一座有许多尖顶和横梁的乡村别墅。在矮小浓密的橡树丛中，她的游廊延伸到点缀着小岛的水面上。一条婉蜒的车道通向漆得锃亮的胡桃木前门，路的一侧有几只铁铸牡鹿，另一侧是一个个长满天竺葵的土丘，上面嵌着些蓝色玻璃球。门的上方是带条纹的游廊顶篷，门内狭长的走廊里铺的是星形图案的木条地板，黑白间色。走廊里共有4个方型小房间，天花板下贴着厚厚的毛面纸，一位意大利画匠将奥林匹斯山诸神全部涂在了上面。自从明戈特太太发福以后，其中的一间就改成了她的卧室；相邻的那间供她消磨时光。她端坐在敞开的门与窗之间一把大扶手椅里，不停地挥着芭蕉扇。由于她异常突出的胸部使扇子远离身体的其他部位，所以扇起的风只能吹动扶手罩的边穗。

因为是老凯瑟琳的干预加快了他的婚事，她对阿切尔表现出施惠者对受惠人的热情。她相信他是由于不可抗拒的爱才缺乏耐心，作为冲动的热情崇拜者（只要不会让她破费），她老是像个同谋似的对他亲切地眨眨眼睛，开个暗示性的玩笑。幸运的是梅似乎对此无动于衷。

她兴致勃勃地观察、品评比赛结束时别在梅胸前的那枚钻石包头的箭形胸针。她说，在她们那个年代，一枚金银丝装饰的胸针就让人心满意足了；但是不可否认，博福特把事情办得着实很漂亮。

“这可真是件传家宝呢，亲爱的，”老夫人咯咯笑着说，“你一定要把它传给你的大女儿。”她捏了捏梅白皙的胳膊，注视着她脸上涌起的红潮。“哎呀！我说什么了让你脸上打出了红旗？难道不要女儿——只要儿子吗，嗯？老天爷，瞧，她又红上加红了！怎么——这也不能说？老天——当我的孩子们恳求我把男女诸神全都画在头顶上时，我总是说，太感谢了，这样谁也不用到我这儿来了，我什么也不用怕了！”

阿切尔哈哈大笑，梅也亦步亦趋，笑得眼睛都红了。

“好了，现在给我讲讲这次聚会吧，亲爱的。从梅多拉那个傻瓜口中，我可休想听到一句实话，”老祖宗接着说。这时梅却大声说：“你说梅多拉姨妈！她不是去了普茨茅斯吗？”老祖宗心平气和地答道：“是啊——不过，她得先来这儿接埃伦。哎——你们还不知道吧？埃伦来和我呆了一天。不来这儿过夏天可真是太蠢了，不过我有50年不跟年轻人抬扛了。埃伦——埃伦！”她用苍老的尖声喊道，一面使劲向前探身，想看一眼游廊那边的草坪。

没有回音。明戈特太太不耐烦地用手杖敲打着光亮的地板。一个缠着鲜亮头巾的混血女佣应声而来，告诉女主人她看见“埃伦小姐”沿小路去海边了。明戈特太太转向了阿切尔。

“像个好孙子那样，快去把她追回来。这位漂亮女士会给我讲聚会的事，”她说。阿切尔站了起来，仿佛像在梦里一般。

自从他们最后一次见面以来，一年半的时间里，他经常听到人们提起“奥兰斯卡”的名字，他甚至熟悉这段时间她生活中的主要事件。他知道，去年夏天她呆在纽波特，并频频涉足社交界；但到了秋季，她忽然转租了博福特费尽周折为她觅得的“理想寓所”，决定去华盛顿定居。冬天，阿切尔听说（人们总能听到华盛顿漂亮女人的事），她在一个据说要弥补政府之不足的“卓越外交学会”里大出风头。阿切尔十分超脱地听了那些故事，听了关于她的仪表、她的谈话、她的观点与择友的各种相互矛盾的报道，就像在听对一个早已故去的人的回忆那样。直到这次射箭比赛，梅多拉突然提到了她的名字，他才感到埃伦•奥兰斯卡又变成了活生生的人。侯爵夫人那笨拙的咬舌音唤出了炉火映照的小客厅的影像，以及空寂无人的道路上回归的马车车轮的声响。他想起了曾经读过的一个故事：几个托斯卡纳农民的孩子，在路旁的洞穴里点燃一捆草，在他们涂画的坟墓里唤出默然无语的故人的影像……

通向海滨的路从宅院坐落的斜坡一直延伸到水边一条人行小道，路旁垂柳依依。阿切尔透过柳慢瞥见了石灰崖的闪光，还有崖上冲刷得雪白的塔楼和英雄的守塔人艾达•刘易斯住的小房子，她将在里面度过年高德劭的余生。越过灯塔是一片平坦的水域和官方在山羊岛竖起的难看的烟囱。海湾向北延伸是金光闪闪的普鲁登斯岛，岛上满是低矮的橡树，远处的科拿内柯特海岸在暮雹中一片朦胧。

从绿柳掩映的小径上拱起一道纤细的木质防波堤，一直延伸到一幢宝塔式的凉亭；塔里站着一位女士，斜倚栏杆，背对着海岸。阿切尔见此停住脚步，恍然如从梦中醒来。过去的回忆只是一场梦，而现实是坡顶那所房子里等着他的那些事情：韦兰太太的马车沿着门外椭圆形轨迹遛了一圈又一圈；梅坐在伤风败俗的奥林匹斯众神之下，因为隐秘的希望而容光焕发；贝拉乌大街尽头的韦兰别墅，在那儿，韦兰先生已穿好就餐礼服，手持怀表，在客厅里踱来踱去，脸色阴郁而焦躁不安——因为这个家里的人永远都清楚什么钟点办什么事。

“我是什么人？女婿——”阿切尔心想。

防波堤尽头的人影纹丝不动。年轻人在半坡上站了很久，注视着海湾来来往往的帆船、游艇、渔船以及由喧噪的拖轮拖着的运煤黑驳船掀起层层波浪。凉亭里的女士似乎也被这景色吸引住了。在灰蒙蒙的福特•亚当斯城堡远处，拉长的落日碎裂成千万个火团；那光辉映红了一只从石灰崖与海滨的夹道中驶出的独桅船船帆。阿切尔一边观看，一边想起了在《肖兰》中看到的那一幕：蒙塔古将艾达•戴斯的丝带举到唇边，而她却不知他在房间里。

“她不知道——她想不到。如果她出现在我身后，我会不会知道？”他沉思着；忽然又自言自语地说：“如果在帆船越过石灰崖上那盏灯之前她不转过身来，我立刻就走。”

船随着退却的潮水滑行，滑过石灰崖，遮住了艾达•刘易斯所在的小房子，越过了挂灯的塔楼。阿切尔等待着，直到船尾与岛上最后一块礁石之间出现一道很宽的闪闪发光的水域，凉亭里的人影依然纹丝未动。

他转身朝山上走去。

“真遗憾你没找到埃伦——我本想再见见她的，”他们在薄暮中驱车回家时梅说道。“可也许她并不在乎——看来她变化太大了。”

“变化？”她丈夫平淡地应声说，眼睛盯着马抽搐的耳朵。

“我是说她对自己的朋友那么冷漠，放弃了纽约和她的家，和那么古怪的人混在一起。想想吧，她在布兰克家会多么不自在！她说这是为了防止梅多拉姨妈受损害，阻止她嫁给讨厌的人、可有时候我想，我们一直很让她厌烦。”

阿切尔没有搭话，她接下去说：“我终究还是不明白，她跟她丈夫在一起是不是会更快活些。”话语间带有一丝冷酷，这是阿切尔在她那坦率稚嫩的声音中从未听到过的。

阿切尔爆发出一阵笑声。“上天啊！”他喊道；当她困惑地皱着眉转过脸看他时，他又说：“我以前可从没听你说过一句冷酷话。”

“冷酷？”

“对——观察受罚者的痛苦扭动应该是天使们热衷的游戏。但我想，即使是他们也不会认为人在地狱里会更快活。”

“那么，她远嫁异国可真是件憾事，”梅说，她那平静的语气俨然如韦兰太太应付丈夫的怪癖。阿切尔感到自己已被轻轻推人不通情理的丈夫一族。

他们驶过贝拉乌大街，转弯从两根顶部装着铸铁灯的削角木门柱间通过，这标志着到了韦兰别墅。窗户里已透出闪闪的灯光，马车一停，阿切尔便瞥见岳父恰如他想象的那样，正手持怀表，在客厅里踱来踱去，脸上一副烦闷的表情——他早就发现这样远比发怒灵验。

年轻人随妻子走入门厅，感到心情发生了一种奇怪的变化。在韦兰家的奢华与浓厚的韦兰氛围之中，充满了琐碎的清规戒律与苛求，老是像麻醉剂一样悄悄侵入他的机体。厚重的地毯，警觉的仆人，无休无止嘀嘀嗒嗒提醒的时钟，门厅桌子上不断更新的一叠叠名片与请柬——它们结成一条专横的锁链，把家庭的每个成员每时每刻捆缚在一起，并使任何丰富的、不够系统的生存方式都成为不真实、不可靠的。然而此时此刻，变得虚幻而无足轻重的却成了韦兰的家，以及这个家里等待他的那种生活，而海滨那短短的一幕，他站在半坡上踌躇不决的那一幕，却像他血管里流的血一样与他贴近。

整整一夜他都没有入睡。在那间印花棉布布置的宽敞卧室里，他躺在梅的身旁看着斜照在地毯上的月光，想象着埃伦•奥兰斯卡坐在博福特的马车后面，穿过闪光的海滩回家的情景。

Chapter 22

A party for the Blenkers--the Blenkers?"

Mr. Welland laid down his knife and fork and looked anxiously and incredulously across the luncheon- table at his wife, who, adjusting her gold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of high comedy: "Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Welland's company at the meeting of the Wednesday Afternoon Club on August 25th at 3 o'clock punctually. To meet Mrs. and the Misses Blenker. "Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P."

"Good gracious--" Mr. Welland gasped, as if a second reading had been necessary to bring the monstrous absurdity of the thing home to him.

"Poor Amy Sillerton--you never can tell what her husband will do next," Mrs. Welland sighed. "I suppose he's just discovered the Blenkers."

Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in the side of Newport society; and a thorn that could not be plucked out, for it grew on a venerable and venerated family tree. He was, as people said, a man who had had "every advantage." His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, his mother a Pennilow of Boston; on each side there was wealth and position, and mutual suitability. Nothing--as Mrs. Welland had often remarked-- nothing on earth obliged Emerson Sillerton to be an archaeologist, or indeed a Professor of any sort, or to live in Newport in winter, or do any of the other revolutionary things that he did. But at least, if he was going to break with tradition and flout society in the face, he need not have married poor Amy Dagonet, who had a right to expect "something different," and money enough to keep her own carriage.

No one in the Mingott set could understand why Amy Sillerton had submitted so tamely to the eccentricities of a husband who filled the house with long- haired men and short-haired women, and, when he travelled, took her to explore tombs in Yucatan instead of going to Paris or Italy. But there they were, set in their ways, and apparently unaware that they were different from other people; and when they gave one of their dreary annual garden-parties every family on the Cliffs, because of the Sillerton-Pennilow-Dagonet connection, had to draw lots and send an unwilling representative.

"It's a wonder," Mrs. Welland remarked, "that they didn't choose the Cup Race day! Do you remember, two years ago, their giving a party for a black man on the day of Julia Mingott's the dansant? Luckily this time there's nothing else going on that I know of--for of course some of us will have to go."

Mr. Welland sighed nervously. "`Some of us,' my dear--more than one? Three o'clock is such a very awkward hour. I have to be here at half-past three to take my drops: it's really no use trying to follow Bencomb's new treatment if I don't do it systematically; and if I join you later, of course I shall miss my drive." At the thought he laid down his knife and fork again, and a flush of anxiety rose to his finely-wrinkled cheek.

"There's no reason why you should go at all, my dear," his wife answered with a cheerfulness that had become automatic. "I have some cards to leave at the other end of Bellevue Avenue, and I'll drop in at about half-past three and stay long enough to make poor Amy feel that she hasn't been slighted." She glanced hesitatingly at her daughter. "And if Newland's afternoon is provided for perhaps May can drive you out with the ponies, and try their new russet harness."

It was a principle in the Welland family that people's days and hours should be what Mrs. Welland called "provided for." The melancholy possibility of having to "kill time" (especially for those who did not care for whist or solitaire) was a vision that haunted her as the spectre of the unemployed haunts the philanthropist. Another of her principles was that parents should never (at least visibly) interfere with the plans of their married children; and the difficulty of adjusting this respect for May's independence with the exigency of Mr. Welland's claims could be overcome only by the exercise of an ingenuity which left not a second of Mrs. Welland's own time unprovided for.

"Of course I'll drive with Papa--I'm sure Newland will find something to do," May said, in a tone that gently reminded her husband of his lack of response. It was a cause of constant distress to Mrs. Welland that her son-in-law showed so little foresight in planning his days. Often already, during the fortnight that he had passed under her roof, when she enquired how he meant to spend his afternoon, he had answered paradoxically: "Oh, I think for a change I'll just save it instead of spending it--" and once, when she and May had had to go on a long-postponed round of afternoon calls, he had confessed to having lain all the afternoon under a rock on the beach below the house.

"Newland never seems to look ahead," Mrs. Welland once ventured to complain to her daughter; and May answered serenely: "No; but you see it doesn't matter, because when there's nothing particular to do he reads a book."

"Ah, yes--like his father!" Mrs. Welland agreed, as if allowing for an inherited oddity; and after that the question of Newland's unemployment was tacitly dropped.

Nevertheless, as the day for the Sillerton reception approached, May began to show a natural solicitude for his welfare, and to suggest a tennis match at the Chiverses', or a sail on Julius Beaufort's cutter, as a means of atoning for her temporary desertion. "I shall be back by six, you know, dear: Papa never drives later than that--" and she was not reassured till Archer said that he thought of hiring a run-about and driving up the island to a stud-farm to look at a second horse for her brougham. They had been looking for this horse for some time, and the suggestion was so acceptable that May glanced at her mother as if to say: "You see he knows how to plan out his time as well as any of us."

The idea of the stud-farm and the brougham horse had germinated in Archer's mind on the very day when the Emerson Sillerton invitation had first been mentioned; but he had kept it to himself as if there were something clandestine in the plan, and discovery might prevent its execution. He had, however, taken the precaution to engage in advance a runabout with a pair of old livery-stable trotters that could still do their eighteen miles on level roads; and at two o'clock, hastily deserting the luncheon-table, he sprang into the light carriage and drove off.

The day was perfect. A breeze from the north drove little puffs of white cloud across an ultramarine sky, with a bright sea running under it. Bellevue Avenue was empty at that hour, and after dropping the stable- lad at the corner of Mill Street Archer turned down the Old Beach Road and drove across Eastman's Beach.

He had the feeling of unexplained excitement with which, on half-holidays at school, he used to start off into the unknown. Taking his pair at an easy gait, he counted on reaching the stud-farm, which was not far beyond Paradise Rocks, before three o'clock; so that, after looking over the horse (and trying him if he seemed promising) he would still have four golden hours to dispose of.

As soon as he heard of the Sillerton's party he had said to himself that the Marchioness Manson would certainly come to Newport with the Blenkers, and that Madame Olenska might again take the opportunity of spending the day with her grandmother. At any rate, the Blenker habitation would probably be deserted, and he would be able, without indiscretion, to satisfy a vague curiosity concerning it. He was not sure that he wanted to see the Countess Olenska again; but ever since he had looked at her from the path above the bay he had wanted, irrationally and indescribably, to see the place she was living in, and to follow the movements of her imagined figure as he had watched the real one in the summer-house. The longing was with him day and night, an incessant undefinable craving, like the sudden whim of a sick man for food or drink once tasted and long since forgotten. He could not see beyond the craving, or picture what it might lead to, for he was not conscious of any wish to speak to Madame Olenska or to hear her voice. He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky and sea enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.

When he reached the stud-farm a glance showed him that the horse was not what he wanted; nevertheless he took a turn behind it in order to prove to himself that he was not in a hurry. But at three o'clock he shook out the reins over the trotters and turned into the by-roads leading to Portsmouth. The wind had dropped and a faint haze on the horizon showed that a fog was waiting to steal up the Saconnet on the turn of the tide; but all about him fields and woods were steeped in golden light.

He drove past grey-shingled farm-houses in orchards, past hay-fields and groves of oak, past villages with white steeples rising sharply into the fading sky; and at last, after stopping to ask the way of some men at work in a field, he turned down a lane between high banks of goldenrod and brambles. At the end of the lane was the blue glimmer of the river; to the left, standing in front of a clump of oaks and maples, he saw a long tumble-down house with white paint peeling from its clapboards.