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Chapter 34
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Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street.
He had just got back from a big official reception for theinauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and thespectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages,where the throng of fashion circulated through a series ofscientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rustedspring of memory.
"Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard someone say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sittingalone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figurein a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely- fitted vista ofthe old Museum.
The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he satlooking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, hadbeen the scene of his solitary musings and of all the familyconfabulations.
It was the room in which most of the real things of his life hadhappened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken tohim, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the youngwomen of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have achild; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken tochurch in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishopof New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long thepride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggeredacross the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behindthe door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother),had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of ReggieChivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her weddingveil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them toGrace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on itsfoundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchangedinstitution.
It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the futureof the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill,Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion forsport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which hadfinally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a risingNew York architect.
The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law andbusiness and taking up all sorts of new things. If they were notabsorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were thatthey were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture orlandscape-engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in theprerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adaptingGeorgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word"Colonial." Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionairegrocers of the suburbs.
But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in thatlibrary that the Governor of New York, coming down from Albany oneevening to dine and spend the night, had turned to his host, and said,banging his clenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses:"Hang the professional politician! You're the kind of man the countrywants, Archer. If the stable's ever to be cleaned out, men like you havegot to lend a hand in the cleaning."
"Men like you--" how Archer had glowed at the phrase! How eagerly hehad risen up at the call! It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appeal toroll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man whoset the example of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him wasirresistible.
Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself WEREwhat his country needed, at least in the active service to whichTheodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think itdid not, for after a year in the State Assembly he had not beenre-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure if usefulmunicipal work, and from that again to the writing of occasionalarticles in one of the reforming weeklies that were trying to shake thecountry out of its apathy. It was little enough to look back on; butwhen he remembered to what the young men of his generation and his sethad looked forward--the narrow groove of money-making, sport and societyto which their vision had been limited--even his small contribution tothe new state of things seemed to count, as each brick counts in awell-built wall. He had done little in public life; he would always beby nature a contemplative and a dilettante; but he had had high thingsto contemplate, great things to delight in; and one great man'sfriendship to be his strength and pride.
He had been, in short, what people were beginning to call "a goodcitizen." In New York, for many years past, every new movement,philanthropic, municipal or artistic, had taken account of his opinionand wanted his name. People said: "Ask Archer" when there was a questionof starting the first school for crippled children, reorganising theMuseum of Art, founding the Grolier Club, inaugurating the new Library,or getting up a new society of chamber music. His days were full, andthey were filled decently. He supposed it was all a man ought to ask.
Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life. But he thoughtof it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repinedwould have been like despairing because one had not drawn the firstprize in a lottery. There were a hundred million tickets in HIS lottery,and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedlyagainst him. When he thought of Ellen Olenska it was abstractly,serenely, as one might think of some imaginary beloved in a book or apicture: she had become the composite vision of all that he had missed.That vision, faint and tenuous as it was, had kept him from thinking ofother women. He had been what was called a faithful husband; and whenMay had suddenly died--carried off by the infectious pneumonia throughwhich she had nursed their youngest child--he had honestly mourned her.Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matterif marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of a duty:lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites. Lookingabout him, he honoured his own past, and mourned for it. After all,there was good in the old ways.
His eyes, making the round of the room--done over by Dallas withEnglish mezzotints, Chippendale cabinets, bits of chosen blue-and-whiteand pleasantly shaded electric lamps--came back to the old Eastlakewriting- table that he had never been willing to banish, and to hisfirst photograph of May, which still kept its place beside his inkstand.
There she was, tall, round-bosomed and willowy, in her starchedmuslin and flapping Leghorn, as he had seen her under the orange-treesin the Mission garden. And as he had seen her that day, so she hadremained; never quite at the same height, yet never far below it:generous, faithful, unwearied; but so lacking in imagination, soincapable of growth, that the world of her youth had fallen into piecesand rebuilt itself without her ever being conscious of the change. Thishard bright blindness had kept her immediate horizon apparentlyunaltered. Her incapacity to recognise change made her children concealtheir views from her as Archer concealed his; there had been, from thefirst, a joint pretence of sameness, a kind of innocent familyhypocrisy, in which father and children had unconsciously collaborated.And she had died thinking the world a good place, full of loving andharmonious households like her own, and resigned to leave it because shewas convinced that, whatever happened, Newland would continue toinculcate in Dallas the same principles and prejudices which had shapedhis parents' lives, and that Dallas in turn (when Newland followed her)would transmit the sacred trust to little Bill. And of Mary she was sureas of her own self. So, having snatched little Bill from the grave, andgiven her life in the effort, she went contentedly to her place in theArcher vault in St. Mark's, where Mrs. Archer already lay safe from theterrifying "trend" which her daughter-in-law had never even become awareof.
Opposite May's portrait stood one of her daughter. Mary Chivers wasas tall and fair as her mother, but large-waisted, flat-chested andslightly slouching, as the altered fashion required. Mary Chivers'smighty feats of athleticism could not have been performed with thetwenty-inch waist that May Archer's azure sash so easily spanned. Andthe difference seemed symbolic; the mother's life had been as closelygirt as her figure. Mary, who was no less conventional, and no moreintelligent, yet led a larger life and held more tolerant views. Therewas good in the new order too.
The telephone clicked, and Archer, turning from the photographs,unhooked the transmitter at his elbow. How far they were from the dayswhen the legs of the brass-buttoned messenger boy had been New York'sonly means of quick communication!
"Chicago wants you."
Ah--it must be a long-distance from Dallas, who had been sent toChicago by his firm to talk over the plan of the Lakeside palace theywere to build for a young millionaire with ideas. The firm always sentDallas on such errands.
"Hallo, Dad--Yes: Dallas. I say--how do you feel about sailing onWednesday? Mauretania: Yes, next Wednesday as ever is. Our client wantsme to look at some Italian gardens before we settle anything, and hasasked me to nip over on the next boat. I've got to be back on the firstof June--" the voice broke into a joyful conscious laugh--"so we mustlook alive. I say, Dad, I want your help: do come."
Dallas seemed to be speaking in the room: the voice was as near byand natural as if he had been lounging in his favourite arm-chair by thefire. The fact would not ordinarily have surprised Archer, forlong-distance telephoning had become as much a matter of course aselectric lighting and five-day Atlantic voyages. But the laugh didstartle him; it still seemed wonderful that across all those miles andmiles of country--forest, river, mountain, prairie, roaring cities andbusy indifferent millions--Dallas's laugh should be able to say: "Ofcourse, whatever happens, I must get back on the first, because FannyBeaufort and I are to be married on the fifth."
The voice began again: "Think it over? No, sir: not a minute. You'vegot to say yes now. Why not, I'd like to know? If you can allege asingle reason--No; I knew it. Then it's a go, eh? Because I count on youto ring up the Cunard office first thing tomorrow; and you'd betterbook a return on a boat from Marseilles. I say, Dad; it'll be our lasttime together, in this kind of way--. Oh, good! I knew you would."
Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began to pace up and down the room.
It would be their last time together in this kind of way: the boy wasright. They would have lots of other "times" after Dallas's marriage,his father was sure; for the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort,whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to interfere withtheir intimacy. On the contrary, from what he had seen of her, hethought she would be naturally included in it. Still, change was change,and differences were differences, and much as he felt himself drawntoward his future daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seize this lastchance of being alone with his boy.
There was no reason why he should not seize it, except the profoundone that he had lost the habit of travel. May had disliked to moveexcept for valid reasons, such as taking the children to the sea or inthe mountains: she could imagine no other motive for leaving the housein Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quarters at the Wellands' inNewport. After Dallas had taken his degree she had thought it her dutyto travel for six months; and the whole family had made theold-fashioned tour through England, Switzerland and Italy. Their timebeing limited (no one knew why) they had omitted France. Archerremembered Dallas's wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blancinstead of Rheims and Chartres. But Mary and Bill wantedmountain-climbing, and had already yawned their way in Dallas's wakethrough the English cathedrals; and May, always fair to her children,had insisted on holding the balance evenly between their athletic andartistic proclivities. She had indeed proposed that her husband shouldgo to Paris for a fortnight, and join them on the Italian lakes afterthey had "done" Switzerland; but Archer had declined. "We'll sticktogether," he said; and May's face had brightened at his setting such agood example to Dallas.
Since her death, nearly two years before, there had been no reasonfor his continuing in the same routine. His children had urged him totravel: Mary Chivers had felt sure it would do him good to go abroad and"see the galleries." The very mysteriousness of such a cure made herthe more confident of its efficacy. But Archer had found himself heldfast by habit, by memories, by a sudden startled shrinking from newthings.
Now, as he reviewed his past, he saw into what a deep rut he hadsunk. The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted onefor doing anything else. At least that was the view that the men of hisgeneration had taken. The trenchant divisions between right and wrong,honest and dishonest, respectable and the reverse, had left so littlescope for the unforeseen. There are moments when a man's imagination, soeasily subdued to what it lives in, suddenly rises above its dailylevel, and surveys the long windings of destiny. Archer hung there andwondered. . . .
What was left of the little world he had grown up in, and whosestandards had bent and bound him? He remembered a sneering prophecy ofpoor Lawrence Lefferts's, uttered years ago in that very room: "Ifthings go on at this rate, our children will be marrying Beaufort'sbastards."
It was just what Archer's eldest son, the pride of his life, wasdoing; and nobody wondered or reproved. Even the boy's Aunt Janey, whostill looked so exactly as she used to in her elderly youth, had takenher mother's emeralds and seed-pearls out of their pink cotton-wool, andcarried them with her own twitching hands to the future bride; andFanny Beaufort, instead of looking disappointed at not receiving a "set"from a Paris jeweller, had exclaimed at their old-fashioned beauty, anddeclared that when she wore them she should feel like an Isabeyminiature.
Fanny Beaufort, who had appeared in New York at eighteen, after thedeath of her parents, had won its heart much as Madame Olenska had wonit thirty years earlier; only instead of being distrustful and afraid ofher, society took her joyfully for granted. She was pretty, amusing andaccomplished: what more did any one want? Nobody was narrow-mindedenough to rake up against her the half-forgotten facts of her father'spast and her own origin. Only the older people remembered so obscure anincident in the business life of New York as Beaufort's failure, or thefact that after his wife's death he had been quietly married to thenotorious Fanny Ring, and had left the country with his new wife, and alittle girl who inherited her beauty. He was subsequently heard of inConstantinople, then in Russia; and a dozen years later Americantravellers were handsomely entertained by him in Buenos Ayres, where herepresented a large insurance agency. He and his wife died there in theodour of prosperity; and one day their orphaned daughter had appeared inNew York in charge of May Archer's sister-in-law, Mrs. Jack Welland,whose husband had been appointed the girl's guardian. The fact threw herinto almost cousinly relationship with Newland Archer's children, andnobody was surprised when Dallas's engagement was announced.
Nothing could more dearly give the measure of the distance that theworld had travelled. People nowadays were too busy--busy with reformsand "movements," with fads and fetishes and frivolities--to bother muchabout their neighbours. And of what account was anybody's past, in thehuge kaleidoscope where all the social atoms spun around on the sameplane?
Newland Archer, looking out of his hotel window at the stately gaietyof the Paris streets, felt his heart beating with the confusion andeagerness of youth.
It was long since it had thus plunged and reared under his wideningwaistcoat, leaving him, the next minute, with an empty breast and hottemples. He wondered if it was thus that his son's conducted itself inthe presence of Miss Fanny Beaufort--and decided that it was not. "Itfunctions as actively, no doubt, but the rhythm is different," hereflected, recalling the cool composure with which the young man hadannounced his engagement, and taken for granted that his family wouldapprove.
"The difference is that these young people take it for granted thatthey're going to get whatever they want, and that we almost always tookit for granted that we shouldn't. Only, I wonder--the thing one's socertain of in advance: can it ever make one's heart beat as wildly?"
It was the day after their arrival in Paris, and the spring sunshineheld Archer in his open window, above the wide silvery prospect of thePlace Vendome. One of the things he had stipulated--almost the onlyone-- when he had agreed to come abroad with Dallas, was that, in Paris,he shouldn't be made to go to one of the newfangled "palaces."
"Oh, all right--of course," Dallas good-naturedly agreed. "I'll takeyou to some jolly old-fashioned place-- the Bristol say--" leaving hisfather speechless at hearing that the century-long home of kings andemperors was now spoken of as an old-fashioned inn, where one went forits quaint inconveniences and lingering local colour.
Archer had pictured often enough, in the first impatient years, thescene of his return to Paris; then the personal vision had faded, and hehad simply tried to see the city as the setting of Madame Olenska'slife. Sitting alone at night in his library, after the household hadgone to bed, he had evoked the radiant outbreak of spring down theavenues of horse-chestnuts, the flowers and statues in the publicgardens, the whiff of lilacs from the flower-carts, the majestic roll ofthe river under the great bridges, and the life of art and study andpleasure that filled each mighty artery to bursting. Now the spectaclewas before him in its glory, and as he looked out on it he felt shy,old-fashioned, inadequate: a mere grey speck of a man compared with theruthless magnificent fellow he had dreamed of being. . . .
Dallas's hand came down cheerily on his shoulder. "Hullo, father:this is something like, isn't it?" They stood for a while looking out insilence, and then the young man continued: "By the way, I've got amessage for you: the Countess Olenska expects us both at half- pastfive."
He said it lightly, carelessly, as he might have imparted any casualitem of information, such as the hour at which their train was to leavefor Florence the next evening. Archer looked at him, and thought he sawin his gay young eyes a gleam of his great-grandmother Mingott's malice.
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Dallas pursued. "Fanny made me swear to dothree things while I was in Paris: get her the score of the last Debussysongs, go to the Grand-Guignol and see Madame Olenska. You know she wasawfully good to Fanny when Mr. Beaufort sent her over from Buenos Ayresto the Assomption. Fanny hadn't any friends in Paris, and MadameOlenska used to be kind to her and trot her about on holidays. I believeshe was a great friend of the first Mrs. Beaufort's. And she's ourcousin, of course. So I rang her up this morning, before I went out, andtold her you and I were here for two days and wanted to see her."
Archer continued to stare at him. "You told her I was here?"
"Of course--why not?" Dallas's eye brows went up whimsically. Then,getting no answer, he slipped his arm through his father's with aconfidential pressure.
"I say, father: what was she like?"
Archer felt his colour rise under his son's unabashed gaze. "Come,own up: you and she were great pals, weren't you? Wasn't she mostawfully lovely?"
"Lovely? I don't know. She was different."
"Ah--there you have it! That's what it always comes to, doesn't it?When she comes, SHE'S DIFFERENT--and one doesn't know why. It's exactlywhat I feel about Fanny."
His father drew back a step, releasing his arm. "About Fanny? But, my dear fellow--I should hope so! Only I don't see--"
"Dash it, Dad, don't be prehistoric! Wasn't she-- once--your Fanny?"
Dallas belonged body and soul to the new generation. He was thefirst-born of Newland and May Archer, yet it had never been possible toinculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve. "What's the use ofmaking mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out," he alwaysobjected when enjoined to discretion. But Archer, meeting his eyes, sawthe filial light under their banter.
"My Fanny?"
"Well, the woman you'd have chucked everything for: only you didn't," continued his surprising son.
"I didn't," echoed Archer with a kind of solemnity.
"No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But mother said--"
"Your mother?"
"Yes: the day before she died. It was when she sent for me alone--youremember? She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be,because once, when she asked you to, you'd given up the thing you mostwanted."
Archer received this strange communication in silence. His eyesremained unseeingly fixed on the thronged sunlit square below thewindow. At length he said in a low voice: "She never asked me."
"No. I forgot. You never did ask each other anything, did you? Andyou never told each other anything. You just sat and watched each other,and guessed at what was going on underneath. A deaf-and-dumb asylum, infact! Well, I back your generation for knowing more about each other'sprivate thoughts than we ever have time to find out about our own.--Isay, Dad," Dallas broke off, "you're not angry with me? If you are,let's make it up and go and lunch at Henri's. I've got to rush out toVersailles afterward."
Archer did not accompany his son to Versailles. He preferred to spendthe afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris. He had to deal all atonce with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulatelifetime.
After a little while he did not regret Dallas's indiscretion. Itseemed to take an iron band from his heart to know that, after all, someone had guessed and pitied. . . . And that it should have been his wifemoved him indescribably. Dallas, for all his affectionate insight,would not have understood that. To the boy, no doubt, the episode wasonly a pathetic instance of vain frustration, of wasted forces. But wasit really no more? For a long time Archer sat on a bench in the ChampsElysees and wondered, while the stream of life rolled by. . . .
A few streets away, a few hours away, Ellen Olenska waited. She hadnever gone back to her husband, and when he had died, some years before,she had made no change in her way of living. There was nothing now tokeep her and Archer apart--and that afternoon he was to see her.
He got up and walked across the Place de la Concorde and theTuileries gardens to the Louvre. She had once told him that she oftenwent there, and he had a fancy to spend the intervening time in a placewhere he could think of her as perhaps having lately been. For an houror more he wandered from gallery to gallery through the dazzle ofafternoon light, and one by one the pictures burst on him in theirhalf-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes ofbeauty. After all, his life had been too starved. . . .
Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "ButI'm only fifty-seven--" and then he turned away. For such summer dreamsit was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, ofcomradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness.
He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; andtogether they walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over thebridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies.
Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, wastalking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but oneprevious glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried topack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go withthe family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-surecriticism tripped each other up on his lips.
As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressivenessincreased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facilityand self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but asan equal. "That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their wayabout," he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the newgeneration which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them thesign- posts and the danger-signal.
Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed.
They had come out into the great tree-planted space before theInvalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the buddingtrees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itselfall the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbolof the race's glory.
Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of theavenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter asquiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit itup. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light becamefor him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirtyyears, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spentin this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet toostimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must havebeen to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendidold houses she must have frequented, the people she must have talkedwith, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associationsthrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorialmanners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had oncesaid to him: "Ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, isthere?"
Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirtyyears; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of MadameOlenska's existence. More than half a lifetime divided them, and she hadspent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society hebut faintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand.During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; butshe had doubtless had other and more tangible companionship. Perhapsshe too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had,it must have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there wasnot time to pray every day. . . .
They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down oneof the thoroughfares flanking the building. It was a quiet quarter,after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the fact gaveone an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes asthis were left to the few and the indifferent.
The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and thereby a yellow electric light, and passers were rare in the little squareinto which they had turned. Dallas stopped again, and looked up.
"It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father'swith a movement from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and theystood together looking up at the house.
It was a modern building, without distinctive character, butmany-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-colouredfront. On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the roundedtops of the horse-chestnuts in the square, the awnings were stilllowered, as though the sun had just left it.
"I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward theporte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back tosay: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings."
Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained.
"I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him.
The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees.
"I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said.
"Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed.
"Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me."
Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?"
"I don't know," said Archer slowly.
"If you don't she won't understand."
"Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you."
Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight.
"But what on earth shall I say?"
"My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile.
"Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts."
His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."
Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway.
Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awningedbalcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried upin the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to thehall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallasentering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile,and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took afterhim."
Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably atthat sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a darklady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out along thin hand with three rings on it. . . . He thought she would besitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind heron a table.
"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heardhimself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should loseits edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded eachother.
He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyesnever turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through thewindows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drewup the awnings, and closed the shutters.
At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. |
纽兰·阿切尔坐在东39街他的图书室的写字台前。
他刚刚参加了为大都会博物馆新展室落成典礼举办的官方大型招待会回来。那些宽敞的大展室里堆满历代收藏品，一大群时髦人物川流于一系列科学分类的宝藏中间——这一景观猛然揿动了一个已经生锈的记忆的弹簧。
“哎，这儿过去是一间塞兹诺拉的老展厅啊，”他听见有人说道。顷刻之间，他周围的一切都隐而不见了，剩下他一个人坐在靠暖气管的硬皮沙发椅上。同时，一个穿海豹皮长大衣的苗条身影沿着老博物馆简陋的狭长通道消逝在远处。
这一幻像引出了一大堆另外的联想。他坐在那儿以新的眼光看着这间图书室。30多年来，这里一直是他独自沉思及全家人闲聊的场所。
他一生大部分真实的事情都发生在这间屋子里。在这儿，大约26年前，他妻子向他透露了她要生孩子的消息，她红着脸，躲躲闪闪的样子会引得新一代年轻女子发笑。在这儿，他们的长子达拉斯因孱弱不能在隆冬季节带去教堂，由他们的朋友、纽约市主教施了洗礼仪式；那位高尚无比、独一无二的主教成为他主管的教区多年的骄傲与光彩。在这儿，达拉斯第一次学步，口中喊着“爹的”瞒哪走了起来，而梅与保姆则躲在门后开怀大笑。在这儿，他们的次女玛丽（她特别像她的妈妈）宣布了与里吉·奇弗斯那群儿子中最迟钝却最可靠的一位订婚。也是在这儿，阿切尔隔着婚纱吻了女儿，然后和她一起下楼坐汽车去了格雷斯教堂——在一个万事都从根本上发生了动摇的世界上，只有“格雷斯教堂的婚礼”还依然如故。
就是在这间图书室里，他和梅经常讨论子女们的前途问题：达拉斯与弟弟贝尔的学业，玛丽对“成就”不可救药的漠然及对运动与慈善事业的一往情深。对“艺术”的笼统爱好最终使好动、好奇的达拉斯进了一家新兴的纽约建筑事务所。
如今的年轻人正在摆脱法律业与商务的束缚，开始致力于各种各样的新事物。如果他们不热衷国家政务或市政改革，那么，他们很可能沉迷于中美洲的考古学、建筑或园林工程，或者对独立战争之前的本国建筑物发生强烈的学术兴趣，研究并改造乔治王朝时期的建筑风格，并且反对无意义地使用“殖民时期”这个词。除了郊区那些做食品杂货生意的百万富翁，如今已没有人拥有“殖民时期”的住宅了。
然而最重要的——阿切尔有时把它说成是最重要的——是在这间图书室里，纽约州州长有一天晚上从奥尔巴尼过来进餐并过夜的时候，咬着他的眼镜、握紧拳头敲着桌子，对着主人说：“去他的职业政治家吧！阿切尔，你才是国家需要的那种人。要想把马厩清理干净，像你这样的人必须伸出手来帮忙打扫。”
“像你这样的人——”阿切尔对这一措辞曾经何等得意！他曾经何等热情地奋起响应召唤！那简直如同内德·温塞特让他挽起袖子下泥沼的呼吁，不过这是由一位先做出榜样的人提出的，而且响应他的号召具有不可抗拒的魅力。
回首往事，阿切尔不敢肯定自己这样的人就是国家需要的人才，至少在西奥多·罗斯福所指示的积极尽职方面他算不上。他这样想实际上不无道理，因为他在州议会任职一年后没有被连选，谢天谢地又跌落下来，做一份如果说有用却没有名的市政工作，后来又一次降格，只偶尔为一份以驱散弥漫全国的冷漠情绪为宗旨的改革周刊写写文章。往事没有多少值得回顾的东西，不过当他想到他那一代与他同类的年轻人的追求时——赚钱、娱乐及社交界的俗套使他们视野狭窄——他觉得他对新秩序的些微贡献也还是有价值的，就像一块砖对于一堵墙的作用那样。他在公共生活中成就甚微，按性情他永远属于一名沉思者与浅尝者，然而他曾经沉思过重大的事情，值得高兴的重大事情，并且因为曾拥有一位大人物的友谊而引为自豪和力量源泉。
总之，他一直是个人们开始称之为“好公民”的人。在纽约，在过去的许多年间，每一项新的运动，不论是慈善性质的还是市政或艺术方面的，都曾考虑过他的意见，需要过他的名字。在开办第一所残疾儿童学校的时候，在改建艺术博物馆、建立格罗里埃俱乐部。创办新图书馆、组织室内音乐学会的时候——遇到难题，人们便说：“去问阿切尔。”他的岁月过得很充实，而且很体面。他以为这应是一个人的全部追求。
他知道他失落了一件东西：生命的花朵。不过现在他认为那是非常难以企及的事，为此而牢骚满腹不啻因为抽彩抓不到头奖而苦恼。彩票千千万万，头奖却只有一个，机缘分明一直与他作对。当他想到埃伦·奥兰斯卡的时候心情是平静的、超脱的，就像人们想到书中或电影里爱慕的人物那样。他所失落的一切都会聚在她的幻影里，这幻影尽管依稀缥缈，却阻止他去想念别的女人。他属于人们所说的忠诚丈夫，当梅突然病故时——她被传染性肺炎夺去了生命，生病期间正哺养着他们最小的孩子——他衷心地哀悼了她。他们多年的共同生活向他证明，只要婚姻能维持双方责任的尊严，即使它是一种枯燥的责任，也无关紧要。失去了责任的尊严，婚姻就仅仅是一场丑恶欲望的斗争。回首往事，他尊重自己的过去，同时也为之痛心。说到底，旧的生活方式也有它好的一面。
他环视这间屋子——它已被达拉斯重新装修过，换上了英国的楼板、切宾代尔式的摆设柜，几枚精选的蓝白色小装饰，光线舒适的电灯——目光又回到那张他一直不愿舍弃的旧东湖书桌上，回到他得到的梅的第一张照片上——它依然占据着墨水台旁边的位置。
她站在那儿，高高的个子，丰满的胸部，苗条的身材，穿一身浆过的棉布服装，戴一顶帽边下垂的宽边草帽，就像他在教区花园桔树底下见到她时那样。后来，她就一直保持着他那天见到她的那副样子，没有长进，也没有退步。她慷慨大度，忠心耿耿，不知疲倦；但却特别缺乏想像力，特别难有长进，以致她青年时代的那个世界分崩离析又进行了重塑，她都没有觉察。这种视而不见的状态显然会使她的见解一成不变。由于她不能认清时代的变化，结果孩子们也跟阿切尔一样向她隐瞒自己的观点。这事从一开始就存在一种共同的借口，一种家人间并无恶意的虚伪，不知不觉地把父亲与孩子们联合了起来。她去世时依然认为人世间是个好地方，到处是像她自己家那样可爱和睦的家庭。她顺从地离开了人间，确信不管发生什么事，阿切尔都会向达拉斯灌输塑造他父母生命的那些准则与成见，而达拉斯（等阿切尔随她而去）也会将这一神圣的信赖转达给小比尔。至于玛丽，她对她就像对自己那样有把握。于是，在死亡的边缘保住了小比尔之后，她便精殚力竭地撒手而去，心满意足地到圣马克墓地阿切尔家的墓穴中归位。而阿切尔太太早已安然躺在那儿，避开了她儿媳甚至都没察觉到的可怕的“潮流”。
在梅的照片对面，还立着她女儿的一张。玛丽·奇弗斯跟母亲一样高，一样漂亮，不过她腰身粗壮，胸部扁平，略显疲态，符合已经变化了的时尚的要求。假如她的腰只有20英寸，能用梅·阿切尔那根天蓝色腰带束腰，玛丽·奇弗斯非凡的运动才能就无从发挥了。母女间的这一差别颇具象征意义，母亲的一生犹如她的形体那样受到了严紧的束缚。玛丽一样地传统，也并不比母亲聪明，然而她的生活却更为开阔，观念更加宽容。看来，新秩序也有它好的一面。
电话铃嘀嘀地响了，阿切尔从两张照片上移开目光，转过身摘下旁边的话机。他们离开那些日子多么遥远了——那时候，穿铜纽扣衣服的信差的两条腿是快速通讯的惟一工具。
“芝加哥有人要和你通话。”
啊——一定是达拉斯来的长途，他被公司派往芝加哥，去谈判他们为一位有见地的年轻富翁修建湖畔宅邸的计划。公司经常派达拉斯执行这类任务。
“喂，爸——是的，我是达拉斯，我说——星期三航行一趟你觉得怎样？去毛里塔尼亚，对，就是下周三。我们的顾客想让我先看几个意大利花园再做决定。要我赶紧乘下一班船过去，我必须在6月1日回来——”他的话音突然变成得意的笑声——“所以我们必须抓紧，我说爸，我需要你的帮助，你来吧。”
达拉斯好像就在屋子里讲话，他的声音那样近，那样真切，仿佛他就懒洋洋地倚在炉边他最喜爱的那张扶手椅里。若不是长途电话已经变得跟电灯和5天横渡大西洋一样司空见惯，这件事准得让阿切尔惊得非同小可。不过这笑声还是让他吓了一跳，他依然感到非常奇妙：隔着这么遥远的疆域——森林、江河、山脉、草原、喧嚣的城市与数百万忙碌的局外人——达拉斯的笑声竟能向他表示：“当然了，不管发生什么事，我必须在1号回来。因为我和范妮·博福特要在5号结婚。”
耳机里又响起儿子的声音：“考虑考虑？不行，先生。一分钟也不行，你现在就得答应。为什么不？我想问一问。假如你能提出一条理由——不行，这我知道。那就一言为定？因为我料想你明天第一件事就是去摁丘纳德办公室的门铃。还有，你最好订一张到马赛的往返船票。我说爸，这将是我们最后一次一起旅行了——以这种方式。啊——太好了！我早知道你会的。”
芝加哥那边挂断了，阿切尔站起来，开始在屋里来回踱步。
这将是他们最后一次以这种方式一起旅行了：孩子说得对。达拉斯婚后他们还会有另外“很多次”一起旅行，父亲对此深信不疑，因为他们俩天生地志同道合，而范妮·博福特，不论人们对她有何看法，似乎不可能会干涉父子间的亲密关系。相反，根据他对她的观察，他倒认为她会很自然地被吸引到这种关系中来。然而变化终归是变化，差别依然是差别。尽管他对未来的儿媳颇有好感，但单独跟儿子一起的最后机会对他也很有诱惑力。
除了他已失去旅行的习惯这一深层原因之外，他没有任何理由不抓住这次机会。梅一直不爱活动，除非有正当的理由，譬如带孩子们到海边或山里去，否则她想不出还有别的原因要离开39街的家，或者离开纽波特韦兰家他们那舒适的住处。达拉斯取得学位之后，她认为出去旅游6个月是她应尽的职责。全家人到英国。瑞典和意大利作了一次老式的旅行。因为时间有限（谁也不知为什么），他们只得略去了法国，阿切尔还记得，在要求达拉斯考虑布朗峰而不去兰斯与沙特尔时儿子那副激怒的样子。但玛丽和比尔想要爬山，而且在游览英国那些大教堂的路上，他俩早就跟在达拉斯后面打呵欠了。梅对孩子们一贯持公平态度，坚决维持他们运动爱好与艺术爱好之间的平衡。她确实曾提议，让丈夫去巴黎呆上两周，等他们“进行”完瑞士，再到意大利湖畔与他们汇合。但阿切尔拒绝了，“我们要始终在一起，”他说。见他为达拉斯树立了榜样，梅脸上露出了喜色。
她去世快两年了，自那以后，他没有理由继续恪守原有的常规了。孩子们曾劝他去旅游，玛丽·奇弗斯坚信，到国外去“看看画展”，肯定对他大有益处。那种治疗方法的神秘性使她愈发相信其功效。然而，阿切尔发觉自己被习惯、回忆以及对新事物的惊惧紧紧束缚住了。
此刻，在他回首往事的时候，他看清了自己是多么墨守成规。尽义务最不幸的后果，是使人变得对其他事情明显不适应了。至少这是他那一代男人所持的观点。对与错、诚实与虚伪、高尚与卑鄙，这些界限太分明了，对预料之外的情况不留半点余地。容易受环境压抑的想像力，有时候会突然超越平日的水平，去审视命运漫长曲折的行程。阿切尔呆坐在那儿，感慨着……
他成长于其中的那个小小天地——是它的准则压制并束缚了他——现在还剩下了什么呢？他记起浅薄的劳伦斯·莱弗茨就在这屋子里说过的一句嘲讽的预言：“假如世态照这种速度发展，我们的下一代就会与博福特家的杂种结亲。”
这正是阿切尔的长子——他一生的骄傲——准备要做的事，而且没有人感到奇怪，没有人有所非难。就连孩子的姑妈詹尼——她看起来还跟她成了大龄青年的时候一模一样——也从粉红的棉絮中取出她母亲的绿宝石与小粒珍珠，用她那双颤抖的手捧着送给了未来的新娘。而范妮·博福特非但没有因为没有收到巴黎珠宝商定做的手饰而露出失望的表情，反而大声称赞其老样式的精美，并说等她戴上之后，会觉得自己像一幅伊萨贝的小画像。
范妮·博福特双亲去世以后，于18岁那年在纽约社交界露面，她像30年前奥兰斯卡夫人那样赢得了它的爱。上流社会非但没有不信任她或惧怕她，反而高高兴兴接纳了她。她漂亮、有趣，并且多才多艺：谁还再需要什么呢？没有人那样心胸狭窄，再去翻她父亲的历史和她出身的老账。那些事已经被淡忘了，只有上年纪的人还依稀记得纽约生意场上博福特破产的事件；或者记得他在妻子死后悄悄娶了那位名声不好的范妮·琳，带着他的新婚妻子和一个继承了她的美貌的小女孩离开了这个国家。后来人们听说他到了君士坦丁堡，再后来又去了俄国。十几年以后，美国的旅行者在布宜诺斯艾利斯受到了他慷慨热情的款待，他在那儿代理一家保险机构。他和妻子在鼎盛时期在那儿离开了人世。有一天他们的孤女来到了纽约，她受梅·阿切尔的弟媳杰克·韦兰太太的照管，后者的丈夫被指定为姑娘的监护人。这一事实差不多使她与纽兰·阿切尔的孩子们成了表姊妹的关系，所以在宣布达拉斯的订婚消息时没有人感到意外。
这事最清楚地说明了世事变化之大。如今人们太忙碌了——忙于改革与“运动”，忙于时新风尚、偶像崇拜与轻浮浅薄——无法再去对四邻八舍的事过分操心。在一个所有的社会微粒都在同一平面上旋转的大万花筒里，某某人过去的历史又算得了什么呢？
纽兰·阿切尔从旅馆窗口望着巴黎街头壮观的欢乐景象，他感到自己的心躁动着青春的热情与困惑。
他那日益宽松的夹克衫下面那颗心，许久许久没有这样冲动与亢奋过了。因而，随后他觉得胸部有一阵空虚感，太阳穴有些发热。他疑惑地想，当他儿子见到范妮·博福特小姐时，他的心是否也会这样——接着又断定他不会。“他的心跳无疑也会加快，但节奏却不相同，”他沉思道，并回忆起那位年轻人宣布他订婚时泰然自若、相信家人当然会同意的样子。
“其区别在于，这些年轻人认为他们理所当然会得到他们想要的东西，而我们那时几乎总认为得不到才合乎情理。我只是不知道——事前就非常有把握的事，究竟会不会让你的心狂跳呢？”
这是他们到达巴黎的第二天。春天的阳光从敞开的窗口照射进来，沐浴着阿切尔，下面是银光闪闪的翁多姆广场。当他同意随达拉斯到国外旅行之后，他要求的一个条件——几乎是惟一的条件——是，到了巴黎，不能强迫他到新式的“大厦”去。
“啊，好吧——当然可以，”达拉斯温顺地同意说。“我会带你到一个老式的快活去处——比如布里斯托尔——”听他说起那个有百年历史的帝王下榻处，就像谈论一家老式旅馆一样，做父亲的不由得目瞪口呆。人们现在只是因为它的古雅过时与残留的地方色彩而光顾它。
在最初那几年焦躁不安的日子里，阿切尔曾三番五次地构想他重返巴黎时的情景；后来，对人的憧憬淡漠了，他只想去看一看作为奥兰斯卡夫人生活背景的那个城市。夜间他独自坐在图书室里，等全家人都睡下以后，便把它初绽的明媚春光召唤到眼前：大街上的七叶树，公园里的鲜花与雕像，花车上传来的阵阵丁香花的香气，大桥下面的滚滚波涛，还有让人热血沸腾的艺术、研究及娱乐生活。如今，这壮观的景象已摆在他面前了，当他放眼观看它的时候，却感到自己畏缩了、过时了，不能适应了。与他曾经梦想过的那种意志坚强的堂堂男儿相比，他变得渺小可悲……
达拉斯的手亲切地落到他的肩上。“嘿，爸爸，真是太美了，对吗？”他们站了一会儿，默默地望着窗外，接着年轻人又说：“哎——对了，告诉你个口信：奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人5点半钟等我们前往。”
他说得很轻松，那漫不经心的样子就像传达一个很随便的消息，比如明晚他们动身去佛罗伦斯乘车的钟点。阿切尔看了看他，觉得在那双青春快活的眼睛里，发现了他曾外婆明戈特那种用心不良的神色。
“噢，我没告诉你吗，”达拉斯接下去说，“范妮让我到巴黎后保证做三件事：买德彪西歌曲总谱，去潘趣大剧场看木偶戏，还有看望奥兰斯卡夫人。你知道博福特先生从布宜诺斯艾利斯送范妮来过圣母节的时候，奥兰斯卡夫人对她特别好。范妮在巴黎一个朋友也没有，她对她很友好，假日带她到各处玩。我相信她和第一位博福特太太是好朋友，当然她还是我们的表亲。所以，上午我出去之前给她打了个电话。告诉她你我在此地呆两天，并且想去看她。”
阿切尔继续瞪大眼睛盯着他。“你告诉她我在这儿了？”
“当然啦——干吗不呢？”达拉斯怪兮兮地把眉毛往上一挑说。接着，因为没得到回答，他便悄悄把胳膊搭到父亲的胳膊上，信任地按了一下。
“哎，爸爸，她长得什么样？”
在儿子泰然自若的凝视下，阿切尔觉得自己脸红了。“咳，坦白吧：你和她过去是好朋友，对吗？她是不是非常可爱？”
“可爱？不知道。她很不同。”
“啊——你算说对了！结果往往就是这样，对吗？当她出现时，非常地不同——可你却不知为什么。这跟我对范妮的感觉完全相同。”
父亲向后退了一步，挣脱开他的胳膊。“对范妮？可亲爱的伙计——我倒希望如此呢！不过我看不出——”
“算了，爸，别那么陈腐了！她是否曾经是——你的范妮？”
达拉斯完完全全属于一代新人。他是纽兰与梅·阿切尔的头生儿子，但向他灌输最基本的矜持原则都办不到。“何必搞得那么神秘？那样只会促使人们探出真相。”叮嘱他谨慎的时候，他总是这样提出异议。然而，阿切尔迎着他的目光，看出了调笑背后流露出的孝心。
“我的范妮——？”
“哦，就是你肯为之抛弃一切的女人：只不过你没那样做。”儿子令他震惊地接着说。
“我没有，”阿切尔带着几分庄严，重复说。
“是的：瞧，你很守旧，亲爱的。但母亲说过——”
“你母亲？”
“是啊，她去世的前一天。当时她把我一个人叫了去——你还记得吗？她说她知道我们跟你在一起很安全，而且会永远安全，因为有一次，当她放你去做你自己特别向往的那件事，可你并没有做。”
阿切尔听了这一新奇的消息默然无语，眼睛依旧茫然地盯着窗下阳光明媚、人群蜂拥的广场。终于，他低声说：“她从没有让我去做。”
“对，是我忘记了。你们俩从没有相互要求过什么事，对吗？而你们也从没有告诉过对方任何事。你们仅仅坐着互相观察，猜测对方心里想些什么。实际就像在聋哑人收容院！哎，我敢打赌，你们那一代人了解对方隐私比我们了解自己还多，我们根本没时间去挖掘，”达拉斯突然住了口。“我说爸，你不生我的气吧？如果你生气，那么让我们到亨利餐馆吃顿午饭弥补一下。饭后我还得赶紧去凡尔赛呢。”
阿切尔没有陪儿子去凡尔赛。他宁愿一下午独自在巴黎街头闲逛。他必须立刻清理一下终生闷在心里的悔恨与记忆。
过了一会儿，他不再为达拉斯的鲁莽感到遗憾了。知道毕竟有人猜出了他的心事并给予同情，这仿佛从他的心上除去了一道铁箍……而这个人竟是他的妻子，更使他难以形容地感动。达拉斯尽管有爱心与洞察力，但他是不会理解的。在孩于看来，那段插曲无疑不过是一起无谓挫折、白费精力的可悲事例。然而仅此而已吗？阿切尔坐在爱丽舍大街的长凳上久久地困惑着，生活的急流在他身边滚滚向前……
就在几条街之外、几个小时之后，埃伦·奥兰斯卡将等他前往。她始终没有回她丈夫身边，几年前他去世后，她的生活方式也没有任何变化。如今再没有什么事情让她与阿切尔分开了——而今天下午他就要去见她。
他起身穿过协和广场和杜伊勒利花园，步行去卢浮宫。她曾经告诉他，她经常到那儿去。他萌生了一个念头，要到一个他可以像最近那样想到她的地方，去度过见面前的这段时间。他花了一两个小时，在下午耀眼的阳光下从一个画廊逛到另一个画廊，那些被淡忘了的杰出的绘画一幅接一幅呈现在他的面前，在他心中产生了长久的美的共鸣。毕竞，他的生活太贫瘠了……
在一幅光灿夺目的提香的作品跟前，他忽然发觉自己在说：“可我才不过57岁——”接着，他转身离去。追求那种盛年的梦想显然已为时太晚，然而在她身旁，静悄悄地享受友谊的果实却肯定还不算迟。
他回到旅馆，在那儿与达拉斯汇合，二人一起再度穿过协和广场，跨过那座通向国民议会的大桥。
达拉斯不知道父亲心里在想些什么，他兴致勃勃、滔滔不绝地讲述凡尔赛的情况。他以前只去匆匆浏览过一遍，那是在一次假日旅行期间，把那些没有机会参观的风光名胜设法一眼饱览了，弥补了他不得不随全家去瑞士那一次的缺憾。高涨的热情与武断的评价使他的讲述漏洞百出。
阿切尔越听越觉得他的话不够准确达意。他知道这孩子并非感觉迟钝，不过他的机敏与自信，来源于平等地看待命运，而不是居高临下。“正是这样：他们自觉能应付世事——他们洞悉世态人情，”他沉思地想，把儿子看作新一代的代表，他们已扫除了一切历史陈迹，连同路标和危险信号。
达拉斯突然住了口，抓起父亲的胳臂大声说：“哎哟，我的老天。”
他们已经走进伤残军人院前面栽满树的开阔地。芒萨尔设计的圆顶优雅地浮在绽露新芽的树木与长长的灰楼上方，将下午的光线全部吸到了它身上。它悬挂在那儿，就像这个民族光荣的有形标志。
阿切尔知道奥兰斯卡夫人就住在伤残军人院周围一条大街附近的一个街区。他曾想象这地方十分幽静，甚至隐蔽，竟把照耀它的光辉中心给淡忘了。此刻，通过奇妙的联想，那金色光辉在他心目中又变成弥漫在她周围的一片光明。将近30年的时间，她的生活——他对其所知极少——就是在这样丰富的环境中度过的，这环境已经让他感到太浓烈、太刺激了。他想到了她必然去过的剧院、必然看过的绘画、必然经常出人的肃穆显赫的旧宅，必然交谈过的人，以及一个以远古风俗为背景的热情奔放、喜爱交际的民族不断涌动的理念、好奇、想象与联想。猛然间，他想起了那位法国青年曾经对他说过的话：“啊，高雅的交谈——那是无与伦比的，不是吗？”
阿切尔将近30年没见过里维埃先生了，也没听人说起过他。由此也可以推断他对奥兰斯卡夫人生活状况的一无所知。他们两人天各一方已有大半生时间，这段漫长的岁月她是在他不认识的人们中间度过的。她生活于其中的社会他只有模糊猜测的份，而她所处的环境他永远也不会完全理解。这期间，他对她一直怀着青春时期的记忆。而她无疑又有了另外的、更确实的友伴。也许她也保留着有关他的独特记忆，不过即便如此，那么它也一定像摆在昏暗的小礼拜室里的一件遗物，她并没有时间天天去祷告……
他们已经穿过了伤残军人院广场，沿着大楼侧面的一条大街前行。尽管这儿有过辉煌的历史，却还是个安静的街区。既然为数不多、感情冷漠的伤残老人都能住在这样优美的地方，巴黎必须依赖的那些富人的情况也就可想而知了。
天色渐渐变成一团阳光折射的柔和雾霭，空中零零落落射出了电灯的黄光。他们转入的小广场上行人稀少。达拉斯又一次停下来，抬头打量。
“一定是这儿了，”他说，一面把胳臂悄悄搭到父亲臂上。阿切尔对他的这一动作没有退避，他俩站在一起抬头观看那所住宅。
那是一座现代式的楼房，没有显著的特色，但窗户很多，而且，奶油色的楼房正面十分开阔，并带有赏心悦目的阳台。挂在七叶树圆顶上方的那些上层阳台，其中有一个凉棚还垂着，仿佛太阳光刚刚离开它似的。
“不知道在几层——？”达拉斯说，一面朝门道走去，把头伸进了门房。回来后他说：“第五层，一定是那个带凉棚的。”
阿切尔依然纹丝不动，眼睛直盯着上面的窗口，仿佛他们朝圣的目的地已经到达似的。
“我说，你瞧都快6点了，”儿子终于提醒他说。
父亲朝一边望去，瞥见树下有一张空凳子。
“我想我要到那儿坐一会儿，”他说。
“怎么——你不舒服？”儿子大声问。
“噢，没事。不过，我想让你一个人上去。”
达拉斯在父亲面前踌躇着，显然感到困惑不解。“可是，我说爸，你是不是打算压根不上去了呢？”
“不知道，”阿切尔缓缓地说。
“如果你不上去，她会很不理解。”
“去吧，孩子，也许我随后就来。”
达拉斯在薄暮中深深望了他一眼。
“可我究竟怎么说呢？”
“亲爱的，你不是总知道该说什么吗？”父亲露出笑容说。
“好吧，我就说你脑筋过时了，因为不喜欢电梯，宁愿爬上5层楼。”
父亲又露出笑容。“就说我过时了：这就足够了。”
达拉斯又看了他一眼，做了个不可思议的动作，然后从拱顶的门道中消失了。
阿切尔坐到凳子上，继续盯着那个带凉棚的阳台。他计算着时间：电梯将儿子送上5楼，摁过门铃，他被让进门厅，然后引进客厅。他一边想象达拉斯迈着快捷自信的脚步走进房间的情形，他那令人愉快的笑容，一边自问：有人说这孩子“很像他”，这话不知是对还是错。
接着，他试图想象已经在客厅里面的那些人——正值社交时间，屋于里大概不止一人——在他们中间有一位阴郁的夫人，苍白而阴郁，她会迅捷地抬起头来，欠起身子，伸出一只瘦长的手，上面戴着三枚戒指……他想她可能坐在靠火炉的沙发角落里，她身后的桌上摆着一簇杜鹃花。
“对我来说，在这儿要比上去更真实，”他猛然听到自己在说。由于害怕真实的影子会失去其最后的清晰，他呆在座位上一动不动。时间一分钟接一分钟地流过。
在渐趋浓重的暮色里，他在凳子上坐了许久，目光一直没有离开那个阳台。终于，一道灯光从窗口照射出来，过了一会儿，一名男仆来到阳台上，收起凉棚，关了百叶窗。
这时，纽兰·阿切尔像见到了等候的信号似的，慢慢站起身来，一个人朝旅馆的方向走了回去。 |
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