書(shū)蟲(chóng)5級(jí)《純真年代》4. 對(duì)伯爵夫人的第二次拜訪

4. A SECOND VISIT TO THE COUNTESS

As Newland walked up Fifth Avenue after dinner that evening, he could see a number of carriages outside the Chiverses', where they were having a party for the Duke. He passed the Beauforts' house, and saw Julius himself come out and drive away in his carriage.

Probably on his way to that new lady friend of his,' thought Newland. All of New York knew about Beaufort's mistresses, and Miss Fanny ring was the latest in a long line.

He walked on into the narrow street where the Countess lived, surrounded by the houses of painters and writers. He and his family belonged to the part of New York society that believed in the importance of literature and art, but fashionable and well-born families rarely mixed socially with artists. Newland himself knew many artists and musicians, whom he met in the little bars and clubs which were beginning to open in the back streets, but he would never expect to meet them in a gentleman's house. He imagined that the Countess, whose house was full of books, was used to a much more open society, where writers and artists came and went freely, and that this might be one of the things she would miss from her old life.

He reached her house and was let in by the servant girl, who was smiling mysteriously. In the hall was a fur-lined coat and a silk opera-hat with the letters J.B. in gold on it; it was clear that Julius Beaufort was visiting Madame Olenska. Newland was so angry that he almost left at once. But then he remembered he had not told the Countess he wished to see her privately, so he could not blame her for opening her doors to other visitors.

In the sitting room Beaufort was standing in front of the fire, smiling down at the Countess. She was half lying on a sofa, her head supported on one hand; her sleeve had fallen away to leave her white arm visible up to the elbow. Instead of the usual close-fitting, all-covering silk dress which New York ladies wore when receiving evening visitors, she was wearing a long dress of soft red material, with black fur around the neck and down the front. The effect was certainly pleasing.

Well, well – three whole days at Skuytercliff!' Beaufort was saying in his loud voice as Newland entered. Skuytercliff was the van der Luydens' country house, just outside New York, and it seemed the Countess was invited there. 'It's a pity – you'll miss the musical evening I've planned for you on Sunday.'

She held out her hand to greet Newland, as she replied to Beaufort. 'Ah, that does tempt me! Except for the other evening at Mrs Struthers', I've not met a single artist since I've been here.'

I know one or two painters, very nice people, who I could bring to see you if you'd allow me,' said Newland daringly.

Painters in New York?' asked Beaufort with a laugh. He gave the impression there were none, since he did not buy their pictures. And Madame Olenska said to Newland, 'That would be delightful. But I was thinking of singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them.'

Newland felt confused – how could she speak so calmly of her married life? But he was pleased to see she wanted to speak to him privately, because she made it clear to Beaufort that he must leave. And a few minutes later they were alone together.

So you care for painting, then?' she began by asking.

Oh yes, enormously. When I'm in Paris or London, I never miss a show. I try to see all the new pictures.'

My life used to be full of such things too. But now I want to throw off my old life, to become just like everybody else here.'

Newland reddened. 'You'll never be like everybody else.'

Ah, don't say that! If you knew how I hate to be different!' Her face looked dark and sad as she spoke.

He waited a moment and cleared his throat. 'I know you want – a divorce. Mr Letterblair told me. That's why I've come. You see, I'm in the firm.'

Her eyes brightened. 'You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of to Mr Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier! You'll help me, won't you?'

First...' he hesitated, 'perhaps I ought to know a little more.'

She seemed surprised. 'You've read the papers? You know about my husband's mistresses? What could be worse than that? Our church allows divorce in such cases.'

That's true, but...' Newland was thinking of a letter from the Count he had read, accusing his wife of having had an affair with his secretary. How much truth was there in that? Only Ellen could tell. 'Of course, you know that if your husband chooses to fight the case, as he threatens to, he can say things...'

Yes?'

Things that... that might be – disagreeable – to you, and say them publicly – even if they aren't true.'

What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here in New York?'

Newland thought, 'She still knows so little about us!' He tried to explain. 'This is a very small world, compared to the one you've lived in. Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned, especially if the woman has... put herself, by some unusual behaviour, in a position where – where offensive accusations can be made against her.'

Her head bent down low, and Newland waited, hoping desperately for a little anger, or at least just a word to tell him that no accusation would be true. No word came.

A clock ticked softly in a corner, and the whole room seemed to be waiting silently with Newland.

Yes,' she whispered at last. 'That's what my family say. And you're one of them, or will be soon. Do you share their view?'

He looked away from her for a moment. How could he say, 'Yes, if what your husband says is true?'

Instead he said gently, 'Is a divorce really worth it, when there's the possibility – the certainty – of a lot of unpleasantness?'

But my freedom – isn't that worth it?'

It's my business, you know, to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them.' He was filling the silence with meaningless talk. He could do nothing else, since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, and told him the truth.

Suddenly she stood up. 'Very well, I will do what you wish,' she said.

The blood rushed to his face, and he caught her hands in his. 'I... I do want to help you,' he said.

You do help me. Good night, my cousin. '

He bent and kissed her hands, which were cold and lifeless. When she took them away, he turned to the door, found his coat and hat in the hall, and ran out into the winter night, bursting with unspoken words.

A week later Newland was at Wallack's theatre, watching one iof that season's most popular plays. He had seen it several times, and one particular scene was his favourite. He was watching it now. In a room, two lovers said goodbye, sadly, almost wordlessly, and the man started towards the door. The woman turned away from him to the fireplace and looked down into the fire. She was wearing a long grey dress with long black ribbons falling down her back. At the door her lover turned for one last look at her; then he walked quietly back, lifted one of the ribbons, kissed it, and left the room without her hearing him or changing her position. And on this silent parting the curtain fell.

Newland thought this as fine as anything he had ever seen in the theatres of Paris and London. The silence and the dumb misery of the lovers' goodbye moved him greatly. And it reminded him – he could not have said why – of his goodbye to Madame Olenska after their conversation a week earlier.

When he had left her, he had the feeling that Count Olenski's accusation was almost certainly true. Ellen was young, she was frightened, she was desperate – what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that, in the law's eyes and the world's, one affair with the secretary made her as wicked as her husband, with his many mistresses. And Newland had explained to her that simple, kind-hearted New York was exactly the place where she could least hope for understanding.

Having to make these facts plain to her, and watching her miserable acceptance of them, had been extremely painful to him. He was glad that he alone knew her secret, which would have horribly embarrassed her relations. And when he told her family she had decided not to ask for a divorce, they were all very grateful to him for sparing them so much unpleasantness.

These thoughts reminded him so strongly of his last talk with Madame Olenska that, as the curtain fell on the lovers' parting, his eyes filled with tears and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he saw Madame Olenska in a box with the Beauforts and some other people. He had tried to avoid meeting her socially, but now their eyes met, and as Mrs Beaufort waved to him to join them, it was impossible to refuse.

He greeted the Beauforts, but soon found himself sitting beside the Countess. She turned and spoke to him in a low voice.

Do you think,' she asked, looking towards the stage, 'the lover will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?'

Newland reddened and his heart jumped in surprise. He had visited her only twice and each time had sent her yellow roses, but without giving his name. She had never mentioned them before. Now the fact that she knew he had sent them, and connected them to the scene they had just watched, filled him with pleasure.

I was thinking of that too,' he said.

To his surprise she blushed, and said after a pause, 'What do you do when May is away?'

I get on with my work,' he replied, a little annoyed by the question. The Wellands always spent February in Florida, as their doctor considered the warm weather there necessary for Mr Welland's chest, and they were there now. Newland had realized there was no chance of persuading them to break the habit of a lifetime, so he had not tried. He would have liked to go with them, but he too was tied by custom and habit – no serious-minded young men took holidays in mid-winter.

He was conscious Madame Olenska was looking at him. 'I understand – that you were right about the divorce,' she said a little breathlessly. 'But sometimes – life is difficult.'

I know.'

And I wanted to tell you that I do feel you were right, and that I'm grateful to you.' She lifted her opera-glasses quickly to her eyes as she heard Beaufort coming to sit next to her.

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

The day before, he had received a letter from May, in which she had asked him to be kind to Ellen in her absence. 'She likes and admires you so much, and although she doesn't show it, she's very lonely and unhappy. You're almost the only person in New York who can talk to her about what she really cares for.'

His wise May – how he loved her for that letter! But he did not want, as an engaged man, to be too obviously the Countess's defender and companion. She could probably take care of herself better than May imagined – she had several gentlemen around her who would be only too glad to be of assistance. But even so, he never saw her without feeling that, after all, May was right. Ellen Olenska was lonely and she was unhappy.

The next morning Newland searched the flower shops for yellow roses, but found none. As a result of this search, he arrived late at the office, and noticed that his lateness made no difference at all to anyone. He was filled with sudden despair at the uselessness of his life. He was just one of the many young men in the old-fashioned law firms like Mr Letterblair's, who sat at their desks or simply read the newspapers for a certain number of hours every day. They didn't need to earn money, but it was thought that young men should have something to do, and the law, being a profession, was considered to be more suitable work for a gentleman than business. Few of them had any ambition, and over many of them the grey dullness of an empty life was already spreading.

It made Newland cold with fear to think it might be spreading over him too. 'I'll never do anything worthwhile!' he thought angrily. 'And my interest in books and paintings and music, my European travels – will I be able to keep any of that up when I'm married?' He thought about men he knew – men who in their younger days had been full of hopes and dreams, as he was now. 'And what happened to them?' he thought. 'Their lives became nothing more than one long, mindless, comfortable routine of dinners and visits and evening parties.'

From his office he sent a note to Madame Olenska, asking if he could call on her that afternoon, but he received no reply that day or the next. This unexpected silence made him unreasonably angry. On the third morning he received a note from her, and to his surprise it had been posted from Skuytercliff. It said:

I ran away the day after I saw you at the theatre, and these kind friends are allowing me to stay here as long as I like. I wanted to be quiet, and think things over. I feel so safe here. I wish you were with us. Yours sincerely, Ellen Olenska

What is she running away from?' he wondered. 'And why does she feel the need to be safe? However, she's certainly made an impression on the van der Luydens – they don't usually encourage their visitors to stay longer than a weekend.'

He felt disappointed that she was away. Then he remembered that he had an invitation from the Chiverses to spend this weekend with them at their country house, Highbank, which was not far from Skuytercliff. He wrote a hurried telegram and sent it off at once, accepting the invitation.