书虫5级《纯真年代》10. 纽兰造访巴黎

10. NEWLAND VISITS PARIS

Newland sat at the desk in his library, and looked round at the room where most of the real things of his life had happened over the last thirty years. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had blushingly told him she was expecting a baby. There his elder son Dallas had taken his first steps towards him, shouting, 'Dad!' There his daughter Mary, who was so like her mother, had announced her engagement to the dullest of Reggie Chivers' sons. And there his great friend Theodore Roosevelt had told him, 'Forget about the professional politicians, Archer! It's men like you the country wants.'

Men like you' – how those words had impressed Newland! How eagerly he had answered the call! At last he had found something worthwhile to do, and he worked long hours in local government. After a while, however, he felt he had done what he could, and returned thankfully to a quieter life. He was admired and respected in New York; his days were full, and they were filled usefully. 'I suppose that's all a man should ask,' he thought.

Something he knew he had missed – the flower of life. But when he thought, so despairingly at first, of Ellen Olenska, over the years she became the picture of perfection, and that picture kept him from thinking of other women. He had been a good husband to May, and when she had suddenly died – carried off by the illness through which she had nursed their youngest child, Bill – he had honestly mourned her. Their long years together had shown him that it did not matter so much if marriage was a dull duty, as long as the couple always behaved in a responsible, dutiful way to each other. If they failed to do that, the marriage just became a battle of selfish interests. Thinking back over his life, he saw there was honour in his past, and he mourned for it. After all, there was good in the old ways.

His eyes rested on his first photograph of May, which still kept its place on his desk. There she was, just as he had seen her under the Florida orange trees. And she had remained the same – never quite as noble as on that day, but never far below – brave, generous, trusting, but with so little imagination that the world of her childhood had fallen into pieces and rebuilt itself without her noticing the changes. Her children protected her by hiding their modern opinions from her, as Newland hid his. And she died thinking the world a good place, full of happy, loving families like her own; she could bear to leave it because she trusted that, whatever happened, Newland would continue teaching Dallas to obey the same rules that he had been taught, and that Dallas (when Newland followed her) would do the same for little Bill. Of Mary she was as sure as of her own self. So, having saved little Bill from death, and given her life in the effort, she went happily to her place in the Archer family grave.

The telephone rang, and Newland answered it. How far they were from the days when a messenger boy was the fastest way of communicating!

Chicago wants you.'

Ah, it must be Dallas, who was there on business for his firm.

Hallo, Dad. Yes, Dallas here. I say – how do you feel about sailing to France on Wednesday on the Mauretania? I've got to be back in early June for my wedding' – the voice broke into a laugh – 'so we must hurry. I say, Dad, do come. Think it over? No, sir, not for a minute. If you can find a single reason why not – no, I knew you couldn't. Oh good! I knew you'd agree.'

It would be their last trip together, because in June Dallas was marrying Fanny Beaufort – she was Julius Beaufort's daughter by his second wife, Fanny ring, the mistress he had married after poor Regina died. It was tempting for Newland to take this last chance of being alone with his first-born son. And France! He had not been there since his honeymoon. May had disliked travelling, and preferred the conversation of friends and family to that of foreigners.

Since her death, nearly two years before, there had been no reason for Newland to continue in the same routine. But the worst of doing his duty was that it had made him unable to do anything else. There are moments, however, when a man's imagination suddenly rises above its daily level, and looks down over all the crossroads and turning points in the long road of life. Newland hung there and wondered...

Looking out of his hotel window at the streets of Paris in the spring sunshine, he felt his heart beating with a young man's confusion and eagerness. In the first impatient years he had often imagined the scene of his victorious return to Paris and Ellen, but now that he was here, he felt shy, old-fashioned, dull – just a grey shadow of a man compared with the brilliant figure he had dreamed of being...

Dallas's hand came down cheerfully on his shoulder. 'Hallo, Father, this is wonderful, isn't it?' They stood for a while, and then the young man continued, 'By the way, I've got a message for you: the Countess Olenska expects us both at half-past five.'

He spoke lightly, carelessly, but turning to look at him, Newland thought he could see a knowing smile in his eyes.

Didn't I tell you?' Dallas went on. 'Fanny made me promise to see Madame Olenska. She was awfully good to Fanny as a little girl, when Mr Beaufort sent Fanny over to France from Argentina. Fanny didn't have any friends, and Madame Olenska was very kind to her. So I telephoned today and asked to see her.'

Newland stared at him. 'You told her I was here?'

Of course – why not?' Dallas slipped his arm through his father's. 'I say, Father, what was she like? Confess – you and she were great friends, weren't you? Wasn't she awfully lovely?'

Lovely? I don't know about that. She was different.'

Ah – there you have it! She's different, and one doesn't know why. It's exactly what I feel about Fanny.'

His father looked shocked. 'But my dear boy – you and Fanny... that's quite a different situation...'

Oh Dad, don't be so old-fashioned! Wasn't she – once – your Fanny? I mean, the woman you'd have given up everything for, but you didn't.'

I didn't,' echoed Newland, frowning.

No, dear old boy, you didn't. But Mother said – she sent for me the day before she died, you remember? She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she'd asked you to, you'd given up the thing you most wanted.'

Newland received this strange communication in silence. At last he said in a low voice: 'She never asked me.'

No, you never did ask each other anything, did you? You just sat and watched each other, and guessed at what was going on underneath. But I think you older people knew more about each other's private thoughts than we ever have time to find out about our own.'

It seemed to take an iron hand from Newland's heart to know that his wife had, after all, guessed and pitied. For a long time he looked out of the window, while the stream of life rolled by... 'I'm only fifty-seven!' he found himself thinking. Summer dreams were past, but surely it was not too late for a quiet autumn of friendship, with Ellen as his companion.

Together he and Dallas walked through the streets towards Madame Olenska's apartment, the son full of excited enthusiasm for Paris, the father busy with his thoughts.

More than half a lifetime divided him from Madame Olenska. She had lived in this ancient beautiful city, among people he did not know, in a rich atmosphere of theatres, and paintings, and books, and conversations he could only guess at. During all those years he had lived with his unchanging memory of her, but her memory of him might no longer be as bright as the flame he carried in his own heart.

They found the building, and looked up at the fifth floor to a balcony, and windows with pale green shutters, which were open.

I think I'll sit down for a moment,' said Newland, pointing to a bench under some trees in the square.

Why – aren't you well?' his son asked.

Perfectly well. But I'd like you to go up without me.'

But Dad, does that mean you won't come up at all?'

I don't know,' said Newland slowly.

But what shall I say?'

My dear boy, don't you always know what to say?'

Very well. I'll say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the stairs because you don't like lifts.'

His father smiled. 'Just say I'm old-fashioned.'

Puzzled, Dallas shook his head and went inside.

Archer sat down on the bench, and continued to look up at the balcony and the windows with the pale green shutters. In his mind he could see Dallas entering the room with his rapid, light step, and a dark lady with a pale face, who would look up quickly and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.

It's more real to me here than if I went up,' he suddenly heard himself say, and the fear of losing that last shadow of reality kept him in his seat.

He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening darkness, his eyes never turning from the windows. At last a lamp was lit inside the apartment, and a servant closed the shutters.

At that, Newland Archer stood up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel.