Chapter 9
The Countess Olenska had said "after five"; and at half after the hour Newland Archer rang the bell of the peeling stucco house with a giant wisteria throttling its feeble cast-iron balcony, which she had hired, far down West Twenty-third Street, from the vagabond Medora.
It was certainly a strange quarter to have settled in. Small dress-makers, bird-stuffers and "people who wrote" were her nearest neighbours; and further down the dishevelled street Archer recognised a dilapidated wooden house, at the end of a paved path, in which a writer and journalist called Winsett, whom he used to come across now and then, had mentioned that he lived. Winsett did not invite people to his house; but he had once pointed it out to Archer in the course of a nocturnal stroll, and the latter had asked himself, with a little shiver, if the humanities were so meanly housed in other capitals.
Madame Olenska's own dwelling was redeemed from the same appearance only by a little more paint about the window-frames; and as Archer mustered its modest front he said to himself that the Polish Count must have robbed her of her fortune as well as of her illusions.
The young man had spent an unsatisfactory day. He had lunched with the Wellands, hoping afterward to carry off May for a walk in the Park. He wanted to have her to himself, to tell her how enchanting she had looked the night before, and how proud he was of her, and to press her to hasten their marriage. But Mrs. Welland had firmly reminded him that the round of family visits was not half over, and, when he hinted at advancing the date of the wedding, had raised reproachful eye-brows and sighed out: "Twelve dozen of everything--hand-embroidered--"
Packed in the family landau they rolled from one tribal doorstep to another, and Archer, when the afternoon's round was over, parted from his betrothed with the feeling that he had been shown off like a wild animal cunningly trapped. He supposed that his readings in anthropology caused him to take such a coarse view of what was after all a simple and natural demonstration of family feeling; but when he remembered that the Wellands did not expect the wedding to take place till the following autumn, and pictured what his life would be till then, a dampness fell upon his spirit.
"Tomorrow," Mrs. Welland called after him, "we'll do the Chiverses and the Dallases"; and he perceived that she was going through their two families alphabetically, and that they were only in the first quarter of the alphabet.
He had meant to tell May of the Countess Olenska's request--her command, rather--that he should call on her that afternoon; but in the brief moments when they were alone he had had more pressing things to say. Besides, it struck him as a little absurd to allude to the matter. He knew that May most particularly wanted him to be kind to her cousin; was it not that wish which had hastened the announcement of their engagement? It gave him an odd sensation to reflect that, but for the Countess's arrival, he might have been, if not still a free man, at least a man less irrevocably pledged. But May had willed it so, and he felt himself somehow relieved of further responsibility--and therefore at liberty, if he chose, to call on her cousin without telling her.
As he stood on Madame Olenska's threshold curiosity was his uppermost feeling. He was puzzled by the tone in which she had summoned him; he concluded that she was less simple than she seemed.
The door was opened by a swarthy foreign-looking maid, with a prominent bosom under a gay neckerchief, whom he vaguely fancied to be Sicilian. She welcomed him with all her white teeth, and answering his enquiries by a head-shake of incomprehension led him through the narrow hall into a low firelit drawing- room. The room was empty, and she left him, for an appreciable time, to wonder whether she had gone to find her mistress, or whether she had not understood what he was there for, and thought it might be to wind the clock--of which he perceived that the only visible specimen had stopped. He knew that the southern races communicated with each other in the language of pantomime, and was mortified to find her shrugs and smiles so unintelligible. At length she returned with a lamp; and Archer, having meanwhile put together a phrase out of Dante and Petrarch, evoked the answer: "La signora e fuori; ma verra subito"; which he took to mean: "She's out--but you'll soon see."
What he saw, meanwhile, with the help of the lamp, was the faded shadowy charm of a room unlike any room he had known. He knew that the Countess Olenska had brought some of her possessions with her--bits of wreckage, she called them--and these, he supposed, were represented by some small slender tables of dark wood, a delicate little Greek bronze on the chimney- piece, and a stretch of red damask nailed on the discoloured wallpaper behind a couple of Italian-looking pictures in old frames.
Newland Archer prided himself on his knowledge of Italian art. His boyhood had been saturated with Ruskin, and he had read all the latest books: John Addington Symonds, Vernon Lee's "Euphorion," the essays of P. G. Hamerton, and a wonderful new volume called "The Renaissance" by Walter Pater. He talked easily of Botticelli, and spoke of Fra Angelico with a faint condescension. But these pictures bewildered him, for they were like nothing that he was accustomed to look at (and therefore able to see) when he travelled in Italy; and perhaps, also, his powers of observation were impaired by the oddness of finding himself in this strange empty house, where apparently no one expected him. He was sorry that he had not told May Welland of Countess Olenska's request, and a little disturbed by the thought that his betrothed might come in to see her cousin. What would she think if she found him sitting there with the air of intimacy implied by waiting alone in the dusk at a lady's fireside?
But since he had come he meant to wait; and he sank into a chair and stretched his feet to the logs.
It was odd to have summoned him in that way, and then forgotten him; but Archer felt more curious than mortified. The atmosphere of the room was so different from any he had ever breathed that self-consciousness vanished in the sense of adventure. He had been before in drawing-rooms hung with red damask, with pictures "of the Italian school"; what struck him was the way in which Medora Manson's shabby hired house, with its blighted background of pampas grass and Rogers statuettes, had, by a turn of the hand, and the skilful use of a few properties, been transformed into something intimate, "foreign," subtly suggestive of old romantic scenes and sentiments. He tried to analyse the trick, to find a clue to it in the way the chairs and tables were grouped, in the fact that only two Jacqueminot roses (of which nobody ever bought less than a dozen) had been placed in the slender vase at his elbow, and in the vague pervading perfume that was not what one put on handkerchiefs, but rather like the scent of some far-off bazaar, a smell made up of Turkish coffee and ambergris and dried roses.
His mind wandered away to the question of what May's drawing-room would look like. He knew that Mr. Welland, who was behaving "very handsomely," already had his eye on a newly built house in East Thirty-ninth Street. The neighbourhood was thought remote, and the house was built in a ghastly greenish- yellow stone that the younger architects were beginning to employ as a protest against the brownstone of which the uniform hue coated New York like a cold chocolate sauce; but the plumbing was perfect. Archer would have liked to travel, to put off the housing question; but, though the Wellands approved of an extended European honeymoon (perhaps even a winter in Egypt), they were firm as to the need of a house for the returning couple. The young man felt that his fate was sealed: for the rest of his life he would go up every evening between the cast-iron railings of that greenish- yellow doorstep, and pass through a Pompeian vestibule into a hall with a wainscoting of varnished yellow wood. But beyond that his imagination could not travel. He knew the drawing-room above had a bay window, but he could not fancy how May would deal with it. She submitted cheerfully to the purple satin and yellow tuftings of the Welland drawing-room, to its sham Buhl tables and gilt vitrines full of modern Saxe. He saw no reason to suppose that she would want anything different in her own house; and his only comfort was to reflect that she would probably let him arrange his library as he pleased--which would be, of course, with "sincere" Eastlake furniture, and the plain new bookcases without glass doors.
The round-bosomed maid came in, drew the curtains, pushed back a log, and said consolingly: "Verra--verra." When she had gone Archer stood up and began to wander about. Should he wait any longer? His position was becoming rather foolish. Perhaps he had misunderstood Madame Olenska--perhaps she had not invited him after all.
Down the cobblestones of the quiet street came the ring of a stepper's hoofs; they stopped before the house, and he caught the opening of a carriage door. Parting the curtains he looked out into the early dusk. A street- lamp faced him, and in its light he saw Julius Beaufort's compact English brougham, drawn by a big roan, and the banker descending from it, and helping out Madame Olenska.
Beaufort stood, hat in hand, saying something which his companion seemed to negative; then they shook hands, and he jumped into his carriage while she mounted the steps.
When she entered the room she showed no surprise at seeing Archer there; surprise seemed the emotion that she was least addicted to.
"How do you like my funny house?" she asked. "To me it's like heaven."
As she spoke she untied her little velvet bonnet and tossing it away with her long cloak stood looking at him with meditative eyes.
"You've arranged it delightfully," he rejoined, alive to the flatness of the words, but imprisoned in the conventional by his consuming desire to be simple and striking.
"Oh, it's a poor little place. My relations despise it. But at any rate it's less gloomy than the van der Luydens'."
The words gave him an electric shock, for few were the rebellious spirits who would have dared to call the stately home of the van der Luydens gloomy. Those privileged to enter it shivered there, and spoke of it as "handsome." But suddenly he was glad that she had given voice to the general shiver.
"It's delicious--what you've done here," he repeated.
"I like the little house," she admitted; "but I suppose what I like is the blessedness of its being here, in my own country and my own town; and then, of being alone in it." She spoke so low that he hardly heard the last phrase; but in his awkwardness he took it up.
"You like so much to be alone?"
"Yes; as long as my friends keep me from feeling lonely." She sat down near the fire, said: "Nastasia will bring the tea presently," and signed to him to return to his armchair, adding: "I see you've already chosen your corner."
Leaning back, she folded her arms behind her head, and looked at the fire under drooping lids.
"This is the hour I like best--don't you?"
A proper sense of his dignity caused him to answer: "I was afraid you'd forgotten the hour. Beaufort must have been very engrossing."
She looked amused. "Why--have you waited long? Mr. Beaufort took me to see a number of houses-- since it seems I'm not to be allowed to stay in this one." She appeared to dismiss both Beaufort and himself from her mind, and went on: "I've never been in a city where there seems to be such a feeling against living in des quartiers excentriques. What does it matter where one lives? I'm told this street is respectable."
"It's not fashionable."
"Fashionable! Do you all think so much of that? Why not make one's own fashions? But I suppose I've lived too independently; at any rate, I want to do what you all do--I want to feel cared for and safe."
He was touched, as he had been the evening before when she spoke of her need of guidance.
"That's what your friends want you to feel. New York's an awfully safe place," he added with a flash of sarcasm.
"Yes, isn't it? One feels that," she cried, missing the mockery. "Being here is like--like--being taken on a holiday when one has been a good little girl and done all one's lessons."
The analogy was well meant, but did not altogether please him. He did not mind being flippant about New York, but disliked to hear any one else take the same tone. He wondered if she did not begin to see what a powerful engine it was, and how nearly it had crushed her. The Lovell Mingotts' dinner, patched up in extremis out of all sorts of social odds and ends, ought to have taught her the narrowness of her escape; but either she had been all along unaware of having skirted disaster, or else she had lost sight of it in the triumph of the van der Luyden evening. Archer inclined to the former theory; he fancied that her New York was still completely undifferentiated, and the conjecture nettled him.
"Last night," he said, "New York laid itself out for you. The van der Luydens do nothing by halves."
"No: how kind they are! It was such a nice party. Every one seems to have such an esteem for them."
The terms were hardly adequate; she might have spoken in that way of a tea-party at the dear old Miss Lannings'.
"The van der Luydens," said Archer, feeling himself pompous as he spoke, "are the most powerful influence in New York society. Unfortunately--owing to her health--they receive very seldom."
She unclasped her hands from behind her head, and looked at him meditatively.
"Isn't that perhaps the reason?"
"The reason--?"
"For their great influence; that they make themselves so rare."
He coloured a little, stared at her--and suddenly felt the penetration of the remark. At a stroke she had pricked the van der Luydens and they collapsed. He laughed, and sacrificed them.
Nastasia brought the tea, with handleless Japanese cups and little covered dishes, placing the tray on a low table.
"But you'll explain these things to me--you'll tell me all I ought to know," Madame Olenska continued, leaning forward to hand him his cup.
"It's you who are telling me; opening my eyes to things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased to see them."
She detached a small gold cigarette-case from one of her bracelets, held it out to him, and took a cigarette herself. On the chimney were long spills for lighting them.
"Ah, then we can both help each other. But I want help so much more. You must tell me just what to do."
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply: "Don't be seen driving about the streets with Beaufort--" but he was being too deeply drawn into the atmosphere of the room, which was her atmosphere, and to give advice of that sort would have been like telling some one who was bargaining for attar-of-roses in Samarkand that one should always be provided with arctics for a New York winter. New York seemed much farther off than Samarkand, and if they were indeed to help each other she was rendering what might prove the first of their mutual services by making him look at his native city objectively. Viewed thus, as through the wrong end of a telescope, it looked disconcertingly small and distant; but then from Samarkand it would.
A flame darted from the logs and she bent over the fire, stretching her thin hands so close to it that a faint halo shone about the oval nails. The light touched to russet the rings of dark hair escaping from her braids, and made her pale face paler.
"There are plenty of people to tell you what to do," Archer rejoined, obscurely envious of them.
"Oh--all my aunts? And my dear old Granny?" She considered the idea impartially. "They're all a little vexed with me for setting up for myself--poor Granny especially. She wanted to keep me with her; but I had to be free--" He was impressed by this light way of speaking of the formidable Catherine, and moved by the thought of what must have given Madame Olenska this thirst for even the loneliest kind of freedom. But the idea of Beaufort gnawed him.
"I think I understand how you feel," he said. "Still, your family can advise you; explain differences; show you the way."
She lifted her thin black eyebrows. "Is New York such a labyrinth? I thought it so straight up and down-- like Fifth Avenue. And with all the cross streets numbered!" She seemed to guess his faint disapproval of this, and added, with the rare smile that enchanted her whole face: "If you knew how I like it for just THAT-- the straight-up-and-downness, and the big honest labels on everything!"
He saw his chance. "Everything may be labelled-- but everybody is not."
"Perhaps. I may simplify too much--but you'll warn me if I do." She turned from the fire to look at him. "There are only two people here who make me feel as if they understood what I mean and could explain things to me: you and Mr. Beaufort."
Archer winced at the joining of the names, and then, with a quick readjustment, understood, sympathised and pitied. So close to the powers of evil she must have lived that she still breathed more freely in their air. But since she felt that he understood her also, his business would be to make her see Beaufort as he really was, with all he represented--and abhor it.
He answered gently: "I understand. But just at first don't let go of your old friends' hands: I mean the older women, your Granny Mingott, Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They like and admire you--they want to help you."
She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know--I know! But on condition that they don't hear anything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it in those very words when I tried. . . . Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob.
"Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.
"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven," she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea- kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York.
Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian.
Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia-- gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs.
"My dear Countess, I've brought an old friend of mine to see you--Mrs. Struthers. She wasn't asked to the party last night, and she wants to know you."
The Duke beamed on the group, and Madame Olenska advanced with a murmur of welcome toward the queer couple. She seemed to have no idea how oddly matched they were, nor what a liberty the Duke had taken in bringing his companion--and to do him justice, as Archer perceived, the Duke seemed as unaware of it himself.
"Of course I want to know you, my dear," cried Mrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice that matched her bold feathers and her brazen wig. "I want to know everybody who's young and interesting and charming. And the Duke tells me you like music--didn't you, Duke? You're a pianist yourself, I believe? Well, do you want to hear Sarasate play tomorrow evening at my house? You know I've something going on every Sunday evening--it's the day when New York doesn't know what to do with itself, and so I say to it: `Come and be amused.' And the Duke thought you'd be tempted by Sarasate. You'll find a number of your friends."
Madame Olenska's face grew brilliant with pleasure. "How kind! How good of the Duke to think of me!" She pushed a chair up to the tea-table and Mrs. Struthers sank into it delectably. "Of course I shall be too happy to come."
"That's all right, my dear. And bring your young gentleman with you." Mrs. Struthers extended a hail- fellow hand to Archer. "I can't put a name to you--but I'm sure I've met you--I've met everybody, here, or in Paris or London. Aren't you in diplomacy? All the diplomatists come to me. You like music too? Duke, you must be sure to bring him."
The Duke said "Rather" from the depths of his beard, and Archer withdrew with a stiffly circular bow that made him feel as full of spine as a self-conscious school-boy among careless and unnoticing elders.
He was not sorry for the denouement of his visit: he only wished it had come sooner, and spared him a certain waste of emotion. As he went out into the wintry night, New York again became vast and imminent, and May Welland the loveliest woman in it. He turned into his florist's to send her the daily box of lilies-of-the-valley which, to his confusion, he found he had forgotten that morning.
As he wrote a word on his card and waited for an envelope he glanced about the embowered shop, and his eye lit on a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before, and his first impulse was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her--there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a sudden revulsion of mood, and almost without knowing what he did, he signed to the florist to lay the roses in another long box, and slipped his card into a second envelope, on which he wrote the name of the Countess Olenska; then, just as he was turning away, he drew the card out again, and left the empty envelope on the box.
"They'll go at once?" he enquired, pointing to the roses.
The florist assured him that they would.
奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人说的是“5点钟以后”。5点半的时候，纽兰•阿切尔摁响了她家的门铃。那是一所灰馒剥落的住宅，一株硕大的紫藤压迫着摇摇欲坠的铸铁阳台。房子是她从四处漂泊的梅多拉手中租下的，在西23街的最南端。
她住进的确实是个陌生的地段，小裁缝、卖假货的及“搞写作的”是她的近邻。沿着这条乱哄哄的街道再往南去，在一段石铺小路的尽头，阿切尔认出一所快要倒塌的木房子，一位名叫温塞特的作家兼记者住在里面，此人阿切尔过去时常遇见，他说起过他住在这里。温塞特从不邀请人到他家作客，不过有一次夜间散步时他曾向阿切尔指出过这幢房子，当时阿切尔曾不寒而栗地自问，在其他大都市里，人们是否也住得如此简陋？
奥兰斯卡夫人住所惟一的不同之处，仅仅是在窗框上多涂了一点儿漆。阿切尔一面审视着这幢屋子简陋的外观，一面想道：那个波兰伯爵抢走的不仅是她的财产，而且还抢走了她的幻想呢。
阿切尔闷闷不乐地过了一天。他与韦兰一家一起吃的午饭，指望饭后带着梅到公园去散散步。他想单独跟她在一起，告诉她昨天晚上她那神态有多么迷人、他多么为她感到自豪，并设法说服她早日和他成婚。然而韦兰太太却态度坚决地提醒他，家族拜访进行还不到一半呢。当他暗示想把婚礼的日期提前时，她责怪地皱起眉头，叹息着说：“还有12打手工刺绣的东西没有……”
他们挤在家用四轮马车里，从族人的一个门阶赶到另一个门阶。下午的一轮拜访结束，阿切尔与未婚妻分手之后，觉得自己仿佛是一头被巧妙捕获的野兽，刚刚被展览过一番。他想可能是因为他读了些人类学的书，才对家族感情这种单纯与自然的表露持如此粗俗的看法；想起韦兰夫妇指望明年秋天才举办婚礼，他展望这段时间的生活，心里像泼上一盆冷水。
“明天，”韦兰太太在他身后喊道，“我们去奇弗斯家和达拉斯家。”他发现她准备按字母顺序走遍他们的两个家族，而他们目前仅仅处于字母表的前四分之一。
他本打算告诉梅，奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人要求——或者不如说命令——他今天下午去看她，可是在他俩单独一起的短暂时刻，他还有更要紧的事要讲，而且他觉得提这件事有点不合情理。他知道，梅特别希望他善待她的表姐。不正是出于这种愿望，才加快了他们订婚消息的宣布吗？若不是伯爵夫人的到来，即使他不再是一个自由人，至少也不会像现在这样无可挽回地受着婚约的束缚。一想到此，他心里产生了一种奇怪的感觉。可这一切都是梅的意愿，他不由觉得自己无须承担更多的责任；因而只要他乐意，他完全可以去拜访她的表姐，而无须事先告诉她。
他站在奥兰斯卡夫人住宅的门口，心里充满了好奇。她约他前来时的口吻令他困惑不解，他断定她并不像表面上那样单纯。
一位黑黝黝的异国面孔的女佣开了门。她胸部高高隆起，戴着花哨的围巾，他隐隐约约觉得她是个西西里人。她露出满口洁白的牙齿欢迎他，对他的问询困惑地摇了摇头，带他穿过狭窄的门廊，进了一间生了火的低矮客厅。客厅里空无一人，她把他留在那儿，给他足够的时间琢磨她是去找女主人呢，还是原本就没弄明白他来此有何贵干。或者她会以为他是来给时钟上弦的吧——他发觉惟一看得见的那只钟已经停了摆。他知道南欧人常用手语相互交谈，而现在他却无法理解她的耸肩与微笑，感到十分难堪。她终于拿着一盏灯回来了，阿切尔这时已从但丁与彼特拉克的作品中拼凑出一个短语，引得她回答说：“拉西格诺拉埃夫奥里；马维拉苏比托。”他认为这句话的意思是：“她出去了——不过一会儿你就能见到她。”
同时，他借助灯光发现这屋子自有一种幽冥淡雅的魅力，与他熟悉的任何房间都不相同。他知道奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人带回来少量的财物——她称作残骸碎片。他想，这几张雅致的深色小木桌，壁炉上那一尊优美的希腊小青铜像，还有几幅装在老式画框里的好像是意大利的绘画（后面是钉在褪色墙纸上的一片红色锦缎）——便是其代表了。
纽兰•阿切尔以懂得意大利艺术而自豪。他童年时代受过拉斯金的熏陶，读过各种各样的新书：像约翰•阿丁顿•西蒙兹的作品，弗农•李的《尤福里翁》，菲• 吉•哈默顿的随笔，以及瓦尔特•佩特一本叫做《文艺复兴》的绝妙新书。他谈论博蒂塞里的画如数家珍，说起拉安吉里克更有点儿不可一世。然而这几幅画却让他极为困惑，因为它们与他在意大利旅行时看惯（因此也能看懂）的那些画毫无相似之处；也许，还因为发现自己处境奇特的感觉削弱了他的观察力——他置身在这个陌生的空房子里，显然又没有谁在恭候他。他为没有把奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人的要求告诉梅•韦兰而懊悔，并且有点忐忑不安。他想，他的未婚妻有可能来这儿看望她的表姐，倘若她发现他坐在这儿，只身在一位夫人炉边的昏暗中等待着，对这种亲密的样子她会怎样想呢？
不过既然来了，他就要等下去；于是他坐进椅子里，把脚伸向燃烧着的木柴。
她那样子召他前来，然后又把他忘掉，真是好生奇怪。但阿切尔的好奇心却超过了窘迫。屋子里的气氛是他从未经验过的，这种差异非常之大，以致他的局促不安已为历险的意识所取代。他以前也曾进过挂着红锦缎和“意大利派”绘画的客厅；使他深受触动的是，梅多拉•曼森租住的这个以蒲苇和罗杰斯小雕像为背景的寒怆住宅，通过巧用几件道具，转手之间竟改造成一个具有“异国”风味的亲切场所，令人联想起古老的浪漫情调与场面。他想分析其中的窍门，找到它的线索——从桌椅布置的方式中，从身边雅致的花瓶只放了两支红玫瑰的事实中（而任何人一次购买都不少于一打），从隐约弥漫的香气中——不是人们撒到手帕上的那一种，而更像从遥远的集市上飘来的，由土耳其咖啡、龙涎香和于玫瑰花配成的那种香味。
他的心思又转到梅的客厅上。她的客厅将会是什么样子呢？他知道韦兰先生表现“十分慷慨”，已经盯上了东39街一所新建住宅。据说，那个街区很僻静，房子是用灰蒙蒙的黄绿色石头建的，这种色调是年轻一代的建筑师刚开始启用的，用以对抗像冷巧克力酱一般覆盖着纽约的清一色的棕石，但房子的管道却十分完备。按阿切尔的心愿，他喜欢先去旅行，住宅的问题以后再考虑。然而，尽管韦兰夫妇同意延长去欧洲度蜜月的时间（也许还可到埃及呆一个冬天），但对于小夫妻回来后需要一所住宅的问题坚定不移。年轻人觉得自己的命运像加了封印似的已成定局：在他的余生中，每天晚上都要走过那个黄绿色门阶两旁的铸铁护栏，穿过庞贝城式的回廊，进入带上光黄木护壁的门厅。除此之外，他的想像力就无从驰骋了。他知道楼上的客厅有一个凸窗，可他想不出梅会怎样处理它。她高高兴兴地容忍韦兰家客厅里的紫缎子与黄栽绒，以及里面的赝品镶木桌与时新的萨克森蓝镀金玻璃框。他找不出任何理由推测她会要求自己的住宅有任何不同；惟一的安慰是她很可能让他按自己的爱好布置他的书房——那里面当然要摆放“纯正的”东湖牌家具，还有不带玻璃门的单色新书橱。
胸部丰满的女佣进来了，她拉上窗帘，往火炉里捅进一块木柴，并安慰地说：“维拉——维拉。”她离开之后，阿切尔站了起来，开始来回踱步。他还要再等下去吗？他的处境变得相当可笑，也许他当时误解了奥兰斯卡夫人的意思——也许她根本就没有邀请他。
从静悄悄的街道上传来卵石路面上迅跑的马蹄声。马车在房子前面停了下来，他瞥见马车的门打开了。他分开窗帘，朝外面初降的薄暮中望去，对面是一盏街灯，灯光下他见朱利叶斯•博福特小巧的英式四轮马车由一匹高大的花马拉着，那位银行家正搀扶着奥兰斯卡夫人下车。
博福特站住了，手里拿着帽子说着什么，似乎被他的同伴否决了。接着，他们握了握手，他跳进马车，她走上门阶。
她进了客厅，见到阿切尔一点儿也没表现出惊讶；惊讶似乎是她最不喜欢的感情。
“你觉得我这可笑的房子怎么样？”她问，“对我来说这就算天堂了。”
她一面说着，一面解开小丝绒帽的系带，把帽子连同长斗篷扔到一边。她站在那里，用沉思的目光望着他。
“你把它收拾得挺可爱，”他说，意识到了这句话的坦率，但又受到平时极欲言简意赅、出语惊人的习惯的约束。
“噢，这是个可怜的小地方，我的亲戚们瞧不起它。但不管怎样，它不像范德卢顿家那样阴沉。”
这话使他无比震惊，因为很少有人敢无法无天地说范德卢顿家宏伟的住宅阴沉。那些获得特权进去的人在里面战战兢兢，并且都称它“富丽堂皇”。猛然间，他为她说出了令众人不寒而栗的话而变得很开心。
“这儿你拾掇得——很怡人，”他重复说。
“我喜欢这个小房子，”她承认道。“不过我想，我喜欢的是它是在这里，在我自己的国家、我自己的城市，并且是我一个人住在里面。”她说得声音很低，他几乎没听清最后几个字，不过却在尴尬中理解了其要点。
“你很喜欢一个人生活？”
“是的，只要朋友们别让我感到孤单就行。”她在炉火旁边坐下，说：“纳斯塔西娅马上就送茶过来。”她示意让他坐回到扶手椅里，又说：“我看你已经选好坐的位置了。”
她身子向后一仰，两只胳膊交叉放在脑后，眼睑垂下，望着炉火。
“这是我最喜欢的时间了——你呢？”
一种体面的自尊使他回答说：“刚才我还担心你已经忘掉了时间呢。博福特一定很有趣吧。”
她看上去很高兴，说：“怎么——你等了很久了吗？博福特先生带我去看了几处房子——因为看来是不会允许我继续住在这儿了。”她好像把博福特和他都给忘了似地接着说：“我从没见过哪个城市像这儿一样，认为住在偏远地区不妥。住得偏远不偏远，有什么关系吗？听人说这条街是很体面的呢。”
“这儿不够时髦。”
“时髦！你们都很看重这个问题吗？为什么不创造自己的时尚呢？不过我想，我过去生活得太无拘无束了，不管怎样，你们大家怎么做，我就要怎么做——我希望得到关心，得到安全感。”
他深受感动，就像前一天晚上听她说到她需要指导时那样。
“你的朋友们就是希望你有安全感，纽约是个极为安全的地方。”他略带挖苦地补上一句。
“不错，是这样。我能感觉到，”她大声地说，并没有觉察他话中的讽刺。“住在这儿就像——就像——一个听话的小姑娘做完所有的功课，被带去度假一样。”
这个比喻本是善意的，但却不能让他完全满意。他不在乎自己对纽约社会说些轻浮的话，却不喜欢听别人使用同样的腔调。他不知她是否真的还没看出，纽约社会是个威力强大的机器，曾经险些将她碾得粉碎。洛弗尔•明戈特家的宴会动用了各种社交手段，才在最后时刻得到补救——这件事应该让她明白，她的处境是多么危险。然而，要么她对躲过的灾难压根儿一无所知，要么是范德卢顿晚会的成功使她视而不见。阿切尔倾向于前一种推测。他想，她眼中的纽约对人依然是一视同仁的，这一揣测让他心烦意乱。
“昨天晚上，”他说，“纽约社交界竭尽全力地欢迎你；范德卢顿夫妇干什么事都是全心全意。”
“是啊，他们对我太好了！这次聚会非常愉快。人人好像都很敬重他们。”
这说法很难算得上准确；她若如此评价可爱的老拉宁小姐的茶会还差不多。
阿切尔自命不凡地说：“范德卢顿夫妇是纽约上流社会最有影响的人物。不幸的是——由于她的健康原因——他们极少接待客人。”
她松开脑袋后面的两只手，沉思地看着他。
“也许正是这个原因吧？”
“原因——？”
“他们有巨大影响的原因啊；他们故意很少露面。”
他脸色有点发红，瞪大眼睛看着她——猛然顿悟了这句话的洞察力。经她轻轻一击，范德卢顿夫妇便垮台了。他放声大笑，把他们做了牺牲品。
纳斯塔西娅送来了茶水，还有无柄的日本茶杯和小盖碟。她把茶盘放在一张矮桌上。
“不过你要向我解释所有这些事情——你要告诉我我应了解的全部情况，”奥兰斯卡夫人接着说，一面向前探探身子，递给他茶杯。
“现在是你在开导我，让我睁开眼睛认清那些我看得太久因而不能认清的事物。”
她取下一个小小的金烟盒，向他递过去，她自己也拿了一支香烟。烟囱上放着点烟的长引柴。
“啊，那么我们两人可以互相帮助了。不过更需要帮助的是我，你一定要告诉我该做些什么。”
他差一点就要回答：“不要让人见到你跟博福特一起坐车逛街——”然而他此刻已被屋子里的气氛深深吸引住了，这是属于她的气氛，他如果提出这样的建议，就好像告诉一个正在萨马尔罕讨价还价买玫瑰油的人，在纽约过冬需要配备橡皮套靴。此刻，纽约似乎比萨马尔罕远多了。而假如真的要互相帮助，那么，她就应该向他提供互相帮助的证据，先帮他客观地看待他的出生地。这样就像从望远镜的反端观察，纽约显得异常渺小与遥远；不过，站到萨马尔罕那边看，情况就是如此。
一片火焰从木柴中跃起，她朝炉火弯了弯身，把瘦削的双手伸得离火很近，一团淡淡的光晕闪烁在她那椭圆的指甲周围。亮光使她发辫上散逸出的浅黑色发鬈变成了黄褐色，并使她苍白的脸色更加苍白。
“有很多人会告诉你该做些什么，”阿切尔回答说，暗暗妒忌着那些人。
“噢——你是说我那些姑妈？还有我亲爱的老奶奶？”她不带偏见地考虑这一意见。“她们都因为我要独立生活而有点恼火——尤其是可怜的奶奶，她想让我跟她住在一起，可我必须有自由——”她说起令人畏惧的凯瑟琳轻松自如，让他佩服；奥兰斯卡夫人甚至渴望最孤独的自由，想到个中原因，也令他深深感动。不过一想到博福特，他又变得心烦意乱。
“我想我能理解你的感情，”他说，“不过你的家人仍然可以给你忠告，说明种种差异，给你指明道路。”
她细细的黑眉毛向上一扬，说：“难道纽约是个迷宫吗？我还以为它像第五大街那样直来直去——而且所有的十字路都有编号！”她似乎猜到他对这种说法略有异议，又露出给她脸上增添魅力的难得的笑容补充说：“但愿你明白我多么喜欢它的这一点——直来直去，一切都贴着诚实的大标签！”
他发现机会来了。“东西可能会贴了标签——人却不然。”
“也许如此，我可能过于简单化了——如果是这样，你可要警告我呀。”她从炉火那边转过身看着他说。“这里只有两个人让我觉得好像理解我的心思，并能向我解释世事：你和博福特先生。”
阿切尔对这两个名字联在一起感到一阵本能的畏缩；接着，经过迅速调整，继而又产生了理解、同情与怜悯。她过去的生活一定是与罪恶势力大接近了，以至现在仍觉得在他们的环境中反倒更自由。然而，既然她认为他也理解她，那么，他的当务之急就是让她认清博福特的真面目，以及他代表的一切，并且对之产生厌恶。
他温和地回答说：“我理解。可首先，不要放弃老朋友的帮助——我指的是那些老太太——你祖母明戈特，韦兰太太，范德卢顿太太。她们喜欢你、称赞你——她们想帮助你。”
她摇摇头，叹了口气。“懊，我知道——我知道！不过前提是她们听不见任何不愉快的事。当我想跟她谈一谈的时候，韦兰姑妈就是这样讲的。难道这里没有人想了解真相吗，阿切尔先生？生活在这些好人中间才真正地孤独呢，因为他们只要求你假装！”她抬起双手捂到脸上，他发现她那瘦削的双肩因啜泣在颤抖。
“奥兰斯卡夫人！唉，别这样，埃伦，”他喊着，惊跳起来，俯身对着她。他拉下她的一只手，紧紧握住，像抚摩孩子的手似地抚摩着，一面低低地说着安慰话。但不一会儿她便挣脱开，睫毛上带着泪水抬头看着他。
“这儿没有人哭，对吗？我想压根儿就没有哭的必要，”她说，接着笑了一声，理了理松散的发带，俯身去拿茶壶。他刚才居然叫她“埃伦”，而且叫了两次，她却没有注意到。他觉得心头滚烫。对着倒置的望远镜，在很远很远的地方，他依稀看见梅•韦兰的白色身影——那是在纽约。
突然，纳斯塔西娅探头进来，用她那圆润的嗓音用意大利语说了句什么。
奥兰斯卡夫人又用手理了下头发，喊了一声表示同意的话“吉啊——吉啊”紧接着，圣奥斯特雷公爵便走了进来，身后跟着一位身材高大的夫人，她头戴黑色假发与红色羽饰，身穿紧绷绷的裘皮外套。
“亲爱的伯爵夫人，我带了我的一位老朋友来看你——斯特拉瑟斯太太。昨晚的宴会她没得到邀请，但她很想认识你。”
公爵满脸堆笑地对着大伙儿，奥兰斯卡夫人低声说了一句欢迎，朝这奇怪的一对走去。她似乎一点也不明白，他们两人凑在一起有多奇怪，也不知道公爵带来这样一位伙伴是多么冒昧——说句公道话，据阿切尔观察，公爵本人对此也一无所知。
“我当然想认识你啦，亲爱的，”斯特拉瑟斯太太喊道，那响亮婉转的声音与她那肆无忌惮的羽饰和假发十分相称。“每一个年轻漂亮有趣的人我都想认识。公爵告诉我你喜欢音乐——对吗，公爵？我想，你本人就是个钢琴家吧？哎，你明晚想不想到我家来听萨拉塞特的演奏？你知道，每个星期天晚上我都搞点儿活动——这是纽约社交界无所事事的一天，于是我就说：‘都到我这儿来乐一乐吧。’而公爵认为，你会对萨拉塞特感兴趣的，而且你还会结识一大批朋友呢。”
奥兰斯卡夫人高兴得容光焕发。“太好了，难得公爵能想着我！”她把一把椅子推到茶桌前，斯特拉瑟斯太太美滋滋地坐了进去。“我当然很高兴去。”
“那好吧，亲爱的。带着这位年轻绅士一起来。”斯特拉瑟斯太太向阿切尔友好地伸出手。“我叫不出你的名字——可我肯定见过你——所有的人我都见过，在这儿，在巴黎，或者在伦敦。你是不是干外交的？所有的外交官都到我家来玩。你也喜欢音乐吧？公爵，你一定要带他来。”
公爵从胡子底下哼了声“当然”，阿切尔向后退缩着生硬地弯腰鞠了个躬。他觉得自己就像一名害羞的小学生站在一群毫不在意的大人中间一样充满勇气。
他并不因这次造访的结局感到懊悔：他只希望收场来得快些，免得他浪费感情。当他出门走进冬季的黑夜中时，纽约又成了个庞然大物，而那位可爱的女子梅•韦兰就在其中。他转身去花商家吩咐为她送去每天必送的一匣铃兰。他羞愧地发现，早上竟把这事忘了。
他在名片上写了几个字。在等待给他拿信封时，他环顾弓形的花店，眼睛一亮，落在一簇黄玫瑰上。他过去从没见过这种阳光般金黄的花，他第一个冲动是用这种黄玫瑰代替铃兰，送给梅。然而这些花看样子不会中她的意——它们太绚丽太浓烈。一阵心血来潮，他几乎是下意识地示意花商把黄玫瑰装在另一个长匣子里，他把自己的名片装人第二个信封，在上面写上了奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人的名字。接着，他刚要转身离开，又把名片抽了出来，只留个空信封附在匣子上。
“这些花马上就送走吗？”他指着那些玫瑰问道。
花商向他保证，立刻就送。