第 36 页

The strident school-teachers were gathering up their possessions preparatory to a straggling flight to the wharf; across the beach lay the white steam-boat at the pier; and over the sunlit waters Boston loomed in a line of haze.

他们一边细嚼慢咽，一边沉思默想着，时而滔滔不绝，时而缄口无言；因为紧箍咒一旦打破，他们都有很多话要说，但间或，话语又变成无言的长篇对白的伴奏。阿切尔不谈自己的事，他并非有意如此，而是不想漏过她过去的每个细节；她倚着桌子，双手紧托着下巴，向他讲述他们相会之后一年半时间里发生的事情。

她渐渐厌倦了人们所说的“社交界”；纽约社会是友善的，它的殷勤好客几乎到了令人难以忍受的地步；她不会忘记它是怎样欢迎她归来的；但经历了最初的新奇兴奋之后，她发现自己——像她说的——是那么“格格不人”，她无法喜欢纽约喜欢的事情。所以，她决定去华盛顿试试看，在那里大概可以遇到各种各样的人，听到各种各样的见解。总之，她或许应在华盛顿安顿下来，在那儿为可怜的梅多拉提供一个家：所有其他的亲戚都已对她失去了耐心，而那时她又最需要照顾，最需要防止婚姻的危险。

“可是卡弗博士——你不是担心他吧？我听说，他一直和你们一起在布兰克家。”

她莞尔一笑。“咳，卡弗危机已经过去了。卡弗博士人很聪明，他想要一个有钱的妻子为他的计划提供资金。作为一名皈依者，梅多拉只是个好广告。”

“皈依什么？”

“皈依各种新奇疯狂的社会计划呀。不过，你知道吗，我对那些计划倒是更感兴趣，它们胜过盲从传统，盲从他人的传统——像我在我们的朋友中间见到的那些。如果发现美洲只是为了把它变成另一个国家的翻版，那似乎是很愚蠢的，”她在桌对面笑了笑。“你能想象克里斯托弗•哥伦布历尽艰辛只是为了跟塞尔弗里奇•梅里一家去看歌剧吗？”

阿切尔脸色大变。“那么博福特——你常跟博福特谈起这些事吗？”他突然问道。

“我很久没见他了，但过去常对他讲，他能理解。”

“啊，还是我一再对你说的那句话，你不喜欢我们。你喜欢博福特，因为他与我们截然不同。”他环视空荡荡的屋子、外面空荡荡的海滨，以及沿海岸一字排列的空荡荡的白色农舍。“我们愚蠢透顶，没有个性，没有特色，单调乏味。——我觉得奇怪，”他脱口而出，“你干吗不回去呢？”

她的眼睛黯淡下来，他等待着她愤然的还击。然而她却坐着一声不吭，仿佛在细细考虑他说的话。他开始害怕了，惟恐她会说她也觉得奇怪。终于，她开口说：“我想是因为你的缘故。”

没有比这更不动声色的坦白了，或者说，没有比这更能激发听者虚荣心的口吻了。阿切尔的脸红到了太阳穴，他却既不敢动弹又不敢开口：仿佛她的话是只珍稀的蝴蝶，只要有一点儿轻微的响动，便会令它振动受惊的翅膀飞走；而若不受惊扰，它便会在周围引来一群蝴蝶。

“至少，”她接下去说，“是你使我认识到，在愚钝的背后还有那么美好、敏感而优雅的东西，它使我在另一种生活中喜爱的事物也相形见细。我不知该怎样表达——”她苦恼地皱起了眉头。“但我以前似乎从不知道为了那些高雅的乐趣，我要付出多少艰辛和屈辱。”

“高雅的乐趣——是值得追求的啊！”他想这样顶她一句，但她恳求的目光使他沉默了。

她接着说：“我想非常诚实地对待你——和我自己。很久以来，我就盼望有这样一次机会，能告诉你，你怎样帮助了我，你怎样改变了我——”

阿切尔坐在那儿，紧锁眉头，睁大了眼睛。他笑了一声打断了她的话。“可你知道你如何改变了我吗？”

她脸色有些苍白地问：“改变了你？”

“对，你改变我的东西远比我改变你的要多。我娶了一个女人是因为另一个女人要我这么做。”

她苍白的脸色顿时红了。“我以为——你答应过——今天不讲这些事。”

“啊——真是个十足的女人啊！你们这些女人谁都不肯把一件糟糕的事解决好！”

她压低声音说：“那是糟糕的事吗——对梅来说？”

他站在窗口，敲打着拉起的吊窗框，每根神经都感受到她提起表妹的名字时那种眷恋之情。

“因为这正是我们一直不得不考虑的——不是吗——你自己的表现不也说明如此吗？”她坚持说。

“我自己的表现？”他重复说，茫然的双眼仍然望着大海。

“如果不是，”她接着说，痛苦专注地继续追寻着自己的思路，“如果说，为了让别人免于幻灭与痛苦而放弃和失去一些东西是不值得的——那么，我回家来的目的，使我的另一段生活因为没人关心而显得空虚可悲的一切——不都变成了虚假的梦幻——”

他原地转过身来。“如果是这样，那你就更没有理由不回去了？”他替她下结论说。

她绝望地两眼紧盯着他说：“啊，是没有理由吗？”

“没有——如果你把全部赌注都押在我婚姻的成功上。我的婚姻，”他粗暴地说，“不会成为留住你的一道风景。”她没有作声，阿切尔继续说：“这有什么意义呢？你使我第一次认识了真正的生活，而同时，你又要求我继续过虚伪的生活。这是任何人都无法忍受的——仅此而已。”

“啊，别这样说；我在忍受着呢。”她嚷道，眼睛里噙满了泪水。

她的双臂顺着桌子垂下去，她坐在那儿，任他凝视着自己的脸，仿佛对面临的严重危险已毫无顾忌。这张脸仿佛把她整个儿袒露了出来，让人看到里面的灵魂。阿切尔站在那儿目瞪口呆，被这种突然的表示吓得不知所措。

“你也——啊，这些日子，你也在忍受吗？”

作为回答，她让噙着的泪珠溢出眼睑，缓缓流淌下来。

他们两人之间仍有半室之隔，而彼此都没有移动的表示。阿切尔意识到自己对她的肉体存在有一种奇怪的冷漠：假如不是她突然伸到桌子上的一只手吸引住他的视线，他几乎就没有觉察到它。就像那一次在23街那个小房子里一样，为了不去看她的脸庞，他一直盯着这只手。他的想像力在这只手上盘旋着，就像在旋涡的边缘那样；但他仍不想接近她。他知道爱抚会激化爱情，而爱情又会激化爱抚；但这种难分难解的爱却是表面的接触无法满足的，他惟恐任何举动会抹去她话语的声音与印象，他惟一的心思是他永远不再感到孤独。

但过了一会儿，一种荒废时光的感觉又控制了他。在这儿，他们就在这儿，靠得很近，安全而又隐蔽；然而他们却被各自的命运所束缚，仿佛隔着半个世界。

“这还有什么意义呢——既然你准备回去？”他突然喊道。他的言外之意是绝望地向她乞求：我究竟怎样才能留住你？

她坐着纹丝不动，眼睑低垂。“哦——我现在还不会走嘛！”

“还不会？那么，到某一时间就走？你已经预定了时间？”

听到这儿，她抬起一双清澈的眼睛说：“我答应你：只要你坚持住，只要我们能像现在这样正视对方，我就不走。”

他坐进自己的椅子里。她的回答实际上是说：“如果你抬起一根指头就会把我赶回去：回到你了解的所有那些令人厌恶的事情中去，回到你部分地猜中的那些诱惑中去。”他心里完全明白，仿佛她真的说出了这些话。这念头使他怀着激动、虔诚的心情顺从地固定在桌子这一边。

“这对你将是怎样一种生活啊！——”他呻吟着说。

“哦——只要它属于你生活的一部分。”

“我的生活也属于你生活的一部分？”

她点了点头。

“而这就是全部——对我们两人来说？”

“对，这就是全部，不是吗？”

听到这儿，他跳了起来，除了她可爱的面容，他什么都不记得了。她也站了起来，既不像是迎接他，也不像是逃避他，而是很镇静。既然任务最棘手的部分已经完成，那么她只需等待了。她是那样镇静，当他走近时，她伸出双手，不是阻挡他而是引导他。她的双手被他握住，她伸开的前臂并不僵硬，却把他隔在一定的距离，让她那张已经屈服的脸讲完余下的话。

也许他们这样站了很久，也许只有几秒钟时间，但这已足够让她默默地传达出她要说的一切了，同时也使他感觉到只有一件事是重要的：他一定不能轻举妄动，以免使这次相会成为诀别；他必须把他们的未来交给她安排，他只能请求她牢牢把它抓住。

“不要——不要不高兴，”她说，声音有点嘶哑，同时把手抽了回去；他答道：“你不回去了——你是不回去了？”仿佛那是他惟一无法忍受的事情。

“我不回去了，”她说罢，转身打开门，率先朝公共餐厅走去。

那群叽叽喳喳的教师正整理行装，准备三五成群地奔向码头；沙滩对面的防波堤前停着那艘白色的汽船；在阳光照耀的水面那一边，波士顿隐约出现在一片雾霭之中。

Chapter 25

Once more on the boat, and in the presence of others, Archer felt a tranquillity of spirit that surprised as much as it sustained him.

The day, according to any current valuation, had been a rather ridiculous failure; he had not so much as touched Madame Olenska's hand with his lips, or extracted one word from her that gave promise of farther opportunities. Nevertheless, for a man sick with unsatisfied love, and parting for an indefinite period from the object of his passion, he felt himself almost humiliatingly calm and comforted. It was the perfect balance she had held between their loyalty to others and their honesty to themselves that had so stirred and yet tranquillized him; a balance not artfully calculated, as her tears and her falterings showed, but resulting naturally from her unabashed sincerity. It filled him with a tender awe, now the danger was over, and made him thank the fates that no personal vanity, no sense of playing a part before sophisticated witnesses, had tempted him to tempt her. Even after they had clasped hands for good-bye at the Fall River station, and he had turned away alone, the conviction remained with him of having saved out of their meeting much more than he had sacrificed.

He wandered back to the club, and went and sat alone in the deserted library, turning and turning over in his thoughts every separate second of their hours together. It was clear to him, and it grew more clear under closer scrutiny, that if she should finally decide on returning to Europe--returning to her husband--it would not be because her old life tempted her, even on the new terms offered. No: she would go only if she felt herself becoming a temptation to Archer, a temptation to fall away from the standard they had both set up. Her choice would be to stay near him as long as he did not ask her to come nearer; and it depended on himself to keep her just there, safe but secluded.

In the train these thoughts were still with him. They enclosed him in a kind of golden haze, through which the faces about him looked remote and indistinct: he had a feeling that if he spoke to his fellow-travellers they would not understand what he was saying. In this state of abstraction he found himself, the following morning, waking to the reality of a stifling September day in New York. The heat-withered faces in the long train streamed past him, and he continued to stare at them through the same golden blur; but suddenly, as he left the station, one of the faces detached itself, came closer and forced itself upon his consciousness. It was, as he instantly recalled, the face of the young man he had seen, the day before, passing out of the Parker House, and had noted as not conforming to type, as not having an American hotel face.

The same thing struck him now; and again he became aware of a dim stir of former associations. The young man stood looking about him with the dazed air of the foreigner flung upon the harsh mercies of American travel; then he advanced toward Archer, lifted his hat, and said in English: "Surely, Monsieur, we met in London?"

"Ah, to be sure: in London!" Archer grasped his hand with curiosity and sympathy. "So you DID get here, after all?" he exclaimed, casting a wondering eye on the astute and haggard little countenance of young Carfry's French tutor.

"Oh, I got here--yes," M. Riviere smiled with drawn lips. "But not for long; I return the day after tomorrow." He stood grasping his light valise in one neatly gloved hand, and gazing anxiously, perplexedly, almost appealingly, into Archer's face.

"I wonder, Monsieur, since I've had the good luck to run across you, if I might--"

"I was just going to suggest it: come to luncheon, won't you? Down town, I mean: if you'll look me up in my office I'll take you to a very decent restaurant in that quarter."

M. Riviere was visibly touched and surprised. "You're too kind. But I was only going to ask if you would tell me how to reach some sort of conveyance. There are no porters, and no one here seems to listen--"

"I know: our American stations must surprise you. When you ask for a porter they give you chewing-gum. But if you'll come along I'll extricate you; and you must really lunch with me, you know."

The young man, after a just perceptible hesitation, replied, with profuse thanks, and in a tone that did not carry complete conviction, that he was already engaged; but when they had reached the comparative reassurance of the street he asked if he might call that afternoon.

Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of the office, fixed an hour and scribbled his address, which the Frenchman pocketed with reiterated thanks and a wide flourish of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away.

Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared, shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man, before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston."

The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze.

"It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M. Riviere continued, "that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself."

"What circumstances?" Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money.

M. Riviere continued to study him with tentative eyes. "I have come, not to look for employment, as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission--"

"Ah--!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind. He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M. Riviere also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough.

"A special mission," Archer at length repeated.

The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down"; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited.

"It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked.

M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself. I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska."

Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket.

"And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?"

M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?"

Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?"

He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."

"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?" Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary."

The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed."

"I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony.

"No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family."

Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well-- and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes.

M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn.

"Why the devil," Archer explosively continued, "should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?"

The change of expression in M. Riviere's face was for a time his only answer. His look passed from timidity to absolute distress: for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur--"

"I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess; still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with."

M. Riviere took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility. "The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with."

"Then I see still less reason for listening to them."

M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone. Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Monsieur--will you tell me one thing? Is it my right to be here that you question? Or do you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?"

His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated.

"I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matter closed?"

M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish. "You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?"

"Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation.

"Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family."

Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband."

Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted.