Island

Mrs. Montague's son had been very good to her, with the kind affection and attention to her well-being that is seldom found toward mothers in sons with busy wives and growing families of their own; when Mrs. Montague lost her mind, her son came into his natural role of guardian. There had always been a great deal of warm feeling between Mrs. Montague and her son, and although they lived nearly a thousand miles apart by now, Henry Paul Montague was careful to see that his mother was well taken care of; he ascertained, minutely, that the monthly bills for her apartment, her food, her clothes, and her companion were large enough to ensure that Mrs. Montague was getting the best of everything; he wrote to her weekly, tender letters in longhand inquiring about her health; when he came to New York he visited her promptly, and always left an extra check for the companion, to make sure that any small things Mrs. Montague lacked would be given her. The companion, Miss Oakes, had been with Mrs. Montague for six years, and in that time their invariable quiet routine had been broken only by the regular visits from Mrs. Montague's son, and by Miss Oakes's annual six-weeks' leave, during which Mrs. Montague was cared for no less scrupulously by a carefully chosen substitute.

Between such disturbing occasions, Mrs. Montague lived quietly and expensively in her handsome apartment, following with Miss Oakes a life of placid regularity, which it required all of Miss Oakes's competence to engineer, and duly reported on to Mrs. Montague's son. “I do think we're very lucky, dear,” was Miss Oakes's frequent comment, “to have a good son like Mr. Montague to take care of us so well.”

To which Mrs. Montague's usual answer was, “Henry Paul was a good boy.”

Mrs. Montague usually spent the morning in bed, and got up for lunch; after the effort of bathing and dressing and eating she was ready for another rest and then her walk, which occurred regularly at four o'clock, and which was followed by dinner sent up from the restaurant downstairs, and, shortly after, by Mrs. Montague's bedtime. Although Miss Oakes did not leave the apartment except in an emergency, she had a great deal of time to herself and her regular duties were not harsh, although Mrs. Montague was not the best company in the world. Frequently Miss Oakes would look up from her magazine to find Mrs. Montague watching her curiously; sometimes Mrs. Montague, in a spirit of petulant stubbornness, would decline all food under any persuasion until it was necessary for Miss Oakes to call in Mrs. Montague's doctor for Mrs. Montague to hear a firm lecture on her duties as a patient. Once Mrs. Montague had tried to run away, and had been recaptured by Miss Oakes in the street in front of the apartment house, going vaguely through the traffic; and always, constantly, Mrs. Montague was trying to give things to Miss Oakes, many of which, in absolute frankness, it cost Miss Oakes a pang to refuse.

Miss Oakes had not been born to the luxury which Mrs. Montague had known all her life; Miss Oakes had worked hard and never had a fur coat; no matter how much she tried Miss Oakes could not disguise the fact that she relished the food sent up from the restaurant downstairs, delicately cooked and prettily served; Miss Oakes was persuaded that she disdained jewelry, and she chose her clothes hurriedly and inexpensively, under the eye of an impatient, badly dressed salesgirl in a department store. No matter how agonizingly Miss Oakes debated under the insinuating lights of the budget dress department, the clothes she carried home with her turned out to be garish reds and yellows in the daylight, inexactly striped or dotted, badly cut. Miss Oakes sometimes thought longingly of the security of her white uniforms, nearly stacked in her dresser drawer, but Mrs. Montague was apt to go into a tantrum at any outward show of Miss Oakes's professional competence, and Miss Oakes dined nightly on the agreeable food from the restaurant downstairs in her red and yellow dresses, with her colorless hair drawn ungracefully to a bun in back, her ringless hands moving appreciatively among the plates. Mrs. Montague, who ordinarily spilled food all over herself, chose her dresses from a selection sent every three or four months from an exclusive dress shop near by; all information as to size and color was predigested in the shop, and the soft-voiced saleslady brought only dresses absolutely right for Mrs. Montague. Mrs. Montague usually chose two dresses each time, and they went, neatly hung on sacheted hangers, to live softly in Mrs. Montague's closet along with other dresses just like them, all in soft blues and grays and mauves.

“We must try to be more careful of our pretty clothes,” Miss Oakes would say, looking up from her dinner to find Mrs. Montague, almost deliberately, it seemed sometimes, emptying her spoonful of oatmeal down the front of her dress. “Dear, we really must try to be more careful; remember what our nice son has to pay for those dresses.”

Mrs. Montague stared vaguely sometimes, holding her spoon; sometimes she said, “I want my pudding now; I'll be careful with my pudding.” Now and then, usually when the day had gone badly and Mrs. Montague was overtired, or cross for one reason or another, she might turn the dish of oatmeal over onto the tablecloth, and then, frequently, Miss Oakes was angry, and Mrs. Montague was deprived of her pudding and sat blankly while Miss Oakes moved her own dishes to a coffee table and called the waiter to remove the dinner table with its mess of oatmeal.

It was in the late spring that Mrs. Montague was usually at her worst; then, for some reason, it seemed that the stirring of green life, even under the dirty city traffic, communicated a restlessness and longing to her that she felt only spasmodically the rest of the year; around April or May, Miss Oakes began to prepare for trouble, for runnings-away and supreme oatmeal overturnings. In summer, Mrs. Montague seemed happier, because it was possible to walk in the park and feed the squirrels; in the fall, she quieted, in preparation for the long winter when she was almost dormant, like an animal, rarely speaking, and suffering herself to be dressed and undressed without rebellion; it was the winter that Miss Oakes most appreciated, although as the months moved on into spring Miss Oakes began to think more often of giving up her position, her pleasant salary, the odorous meals from the restaurant downstairs.

It was in the spring that Mrs. Montague so often tried to give things to Miss Oakes; one afternoon when their walk was dubious because of the rain, Mrs. Montague had gone as of habit to the hall closet and taken out her coat, and now sat in her armchair with the rich dark mink heaped in her lap, smoothing the fur as though she held a cat. “Pretty,” Mrs. Montague was saying, “pretty, pretty.”

“We're very lucky to have such lovely things,” Miss Oakes said. Because it was her practice to keep busy always, never to let her knowledgeable fingers rest so long as they might be doing something useful, she was knitting a scarf. It was only half-finished, but already Miss Oakes was beginning to despair of it; the yarn, in the store and in the roll, seemed a soft tender green, but knit up into the scarf it assumed a gaudy chartreuse character that made its original purpose—to embrace the firm fleshy neck of Henry Paul Montague—seem faintly improper; when Miss Oakes looked at the scarf impartially it irritated her, as did almost everything she created.

“Think of the money,” Miss Oakes said, “that goes into all those beautiful things, just because your son is so generous and kind.”

“I will give you this fur,” Mrs. Montague said suddenly. “Because you have no beautiful things of your own.”

“Thank you, dear,” Miss Oakes said. She worked busily at her scarf for a minute and then said, “It's not being very grateful for nice things like that, dear, to want to give them away.”

“It wouldn't look nice on you,” Mrs. Montague said, “it would look awful. You're not very pretty.”

Miss Oakes was silent again for a minute, and then she said, “Well, dear, shall we see if it's still raining?” With great deliberation she put down the knitting and walked over to the window. When she pulled back the lace curtain and the heavy dark-red drape she did so carefully, because the curtain and the drape were not precisely her own, but were of service to her, and pleasant to her touch, and expensive. “It's almost stopped,” she said brightly. She squinted her eyes and looked up at the sky. “I do believe it's going to clear up,” she went on, as though her brightness might create a sun of reflected brilliance. “In about fifteen minutes...” She let her voice trail off, and smiled at Mrs. Montague with vast anticipation.

“I don't want to go for any walk,” Mrs. Montague said sullenly. “Once when we were children we used to take off all our clothes and run out in the rain.”

Miss Oakes returned to her chair and took up her knitting. “We can start to get ready in a few minutes,” she promised.

“I couldn't do that now, of course,” Mrs. Montague said. “I want to color.”

She slid out of her chair, dropping the mink coat into a heap on the floor, and went slowly, with her faltering walk, across the room to the card table where her coloring book and box of crayons lay. Miss Oakes sighed, set her knitting down, and walked over to pick up the mink coat; she draped it tenderly over the back of the chair, and went back and picked up her knitting again.

“Pretty, pretty,” Mrs. Montague crooned over her coloring, “Pretty blue, pretty water, pretty, pretty.”

Miss Oakes allowed a small smile to touch her face as she regarded the scarf; it was a bright color, perhaps too bright for a man no longer very young, but it was gay and not really unusually green. His birthday was three weeks off; the card in the box would say “To remind you of your loyal friend and admirer, Polly Oakes.” Miss Oakes sighed quickly.

“I want to go for a walk,” Mrs. Montague said abruptly.

“Just a minute, dear,” Miss Oakes said. She put the knitting down again and smiled at Mrs. Montague. “I'll help you,” Miss Oakes said, and went over to assist Mrs. Montague in the slow task that getting out of a straight chair always entailed. “Why, look at you,” Miss Oakes said, regarding the coloring book over Mrs. Montague's head. She laughed. “You've gone and made the whole thing blue, you silly child.” She turned back a page. “And here,” she said, and laughed again. “Why does the man have a blue face? And the little girl in the picture—she mustn't be blue, dear, her face should be pink and her hair should be—oh, yellow, for instance. Not blue.”

Mrs. Montague put her hands violently over the picture. “Mine,” she said. “Get away, this is mine.”

“I'm sorry,” Miss Oakes said smoothly, “I wasn't laughing at you, dear. It was just funny to see a man with a blue face.” She helped Mrs. Montague out of the chair and escorted her across the room to the mink coat. Mrs. Montague stood stiffly while Miss Oakes put the coat over her shoulders and helped her arms into the sleeves, and when Miss Oakes came around in front of her to button the coat at the neck Mrs. Montague turned down the corners of her mouth and said sullenly into Miss Oakes's face, so close to hers, “You don't know what things are, really.”

“Perhaps I don't,” Miss Oakes said absently. She surveyed Mrs. Montague, neatly buttoned into the mink coat, and then took Mrs. Montague's rose-covered hat from the table in the hall and set it on Mrs. Montague's head, with great regard to the correct angle and the neatness of the roses. “Now we look so pretty,” Miss Oakes said. Mrs. Montague stood silently while Miss Oakes went to the hall closet and took out her own serviceable blue coat. She shrugged herself into it, settled it with a brisk tug at the collar, and pulled on her hat with a quick gesture from back to front that landed the hatbrim at exactly the usual angle over her eye. It was not until she was escorting Mrs. Montague to the door that Miss Oakes gave one brief, furtive glance at the hall mirror, as one who does so from a nervous compulsion rather than any real desire for information.

Miss Oakes enjoyed walking down the hall; its carpets were so thick that even the stout shoes of Miss Oakes made no sound. The elevator was self-service, and Miss Oakes, with superhuman control, allowed it to sweep soundlessly down to the main floor, carrying with it Miss Oakes herself, and Mrs. Montague, who sat docilely on the velvet-covered bench and stared at the paneling as though she had never seen it before. When the elevator door opened and they moved out into the lobby Miss Oakes knew that the few people who saw them—the girl at the switchboatd, the doorman, another tenant coming to the elevator—recognized Mrs. Montague as the rich old lady who lived high upstairs, and Miss Oakes as the infinitely competent companion, without whose unswerving assistance Mrs. Montague could not live for ten minutes. Miss Oakes walked sturdily and well through the lobby, her firm hand guiding soft little Mrs. Montague; the lobby floor was pale carpeting on which their feet made no sound, and the lobby walls were painted an expensive color so neutral as to be almost invisible; as Miss Oakes went with Mrs. Montague through the lobby it was as though they walked upon clouds, through the noncommittal areas of infinite space. The doorway was their aim, and the doorman, dressed in gray, opened the way for them with a flourish and a “Good afternoon” which began by being directed at Mrs. Montague, as the employer, and ended by addressing Miss Oakes, as the person who would be expected to answer.

“Good afternoon, George,” Miss Oakes said, with a stately smile, and passed on through the doorway, leading Mrs. Montague. Once outside on the sidewalk, Miss Oakes steered Mrs. Montague quickly to the left, since, allowed her head, Mrs. Montague might as easily have turned unexpectedly to the right, although they always turned to the left, and so upset Miss Oakes's walk for the day. With slow steps they moved into the current of people walking up the street, Miss Oakes watching ahead to avoid Mrs. Montague's walking into strangers, Mrs. Montague with her face turned up to the gray sky.

“It's a lovely day,” Miss Oakes said. “Pleasantly cool after the rain.”

They had gone perhaps half a block when Mrs. Montague, by a gentle pressure against Miss Oakes's arm, began to direct them toward the inside of the sidewalk and the shop windows; Miss Oakes, resisting at first, at last allowed herself to be reluctantly influenced and they crossed the sidewalk to stand in front of the window to a stationery store.

They stopped here every day, and, as she said every day, Mrs. Montague murmured softly, “Look at all the lovely things.” She watched with amusement a plastic bird, colored bright red and yellow, which methodically dipped its beak into a glass of water and withdrew it; while they stood watching the bird lowered its head and touched the water, hesitated, and then rose.

“Does it stop when we're not here?” Mrs. Montague asked, and Miss Oakes laughed, and said, “It never stops. It goes on while we're eating and while we're sleeping and all the time.”

Mrs. Montague's attention had wandered to the open pages of a diary, spread nakedly to the pages dated June 14-June 15. Mrs. Montague, looking at the smooth unwritten paper, caught her breath. “I'd like to have that,” she said, and Miss Oakes, as she answered every day, said, “What would you write in it, dear?”

The thing that always caught Mrs. Montague next was a softly curved blue bowl which stood in the center of the window display; Mrs. Montague pored lovingly and speechlessly over this daily, trying to touch it through the glass of the window.

“Come on dear,” Miss Oakes said finally, with an almost-impatient tug at Mrs. Montague's arm. “We'll never get our walk finished if you don't come on.”

Docilely Mrs. Montague followed. “Pretty,” she whispered, “pretty, pretty.”

She opened her eyes suddenly and was aware that she saw. The sky was unbelievably, steadily blue, and the sand beneath her feet was hot; she could see the water, colored more deeply than the sky, but faintly greener. Far off was the line where the sky and water met, and it was infinitely pure.

“Pretty,” she said inadequately, and was aware that she spoke. She was walking on the sand, and with a sudden impatient gesture she stopped and slipped off her shoes, standing first on one foot and then on the other. This encouraged her to look down at herself; she was very tall, high above her shoes on the sand, and when she moved it was freely and easily except for the cumbering clothes, the heavy coat and the hat, which sat on her head with a tangible, oppressive weight. She threw the hat onto the hot lovely sand, and it looked so offensive, lying with its patently unreal roses against the smooth clarity of the sand, that she bent quickly and covered the hat with handfuls of sand; the coat was more difficult to cover, and the sand ran delicately between the hairs of the short dark fur; before she had half covered the coat she decided to put the rest of her clothes with it, and did so, slipping easily out of the straps and buttons and catches of many garments, which she remembered as difficult to put on. When all her clothes were buried she looked with satisfaction down at her strong white legs, and thought, aware that she was thinking it: they are almost the same color as the sand. She began to run freely, with the blue ocean and the bluer sky on her right, the trees on her left, and the moving sand underfoot; she ran until she came back to the place where a corner of her coat still showed through the sand. When she saw it she stopped again and said, “Pretty, pretty,” and leaned over and took a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers.

Far away, somewhere in the grove of trees that centered the island she could hear the parrot calling. “Eat, eat,” it shrieked, and then something indistinguishable, and then, “Eat, eat.”

An idea came indirectly and subtly to her mind; it was the idea of food, for a minute unpleasant and as though it meant a disagreeable sensation, and then glowingly happy. She turned and ran—it was impossible to move slowly on the island, with the clear hot air all around her, and the ocean stirring constantly, pushing at the island, and the unbelievable blue sky above—and when she came into the sudden warm shade of the trees she ran from one to another, putting her hand for a minute on each.

“Hello,” the parrot gabbled, “Hello, who's there, eat?” She could see it flashing among the trees, no more than a sawtoothed voice and a flash of ugly red and yellow.

The grass was green and rich and soft, and she sat down by the little brook where the food was set out. Today there was a great polished wooden bowl, soft to the touch, full of purple grapes; the sun that came unevenly between the trees struck a high shine from the bowl, and lay flatly against the grapes, which were dusty with warmth, and almost black. There was a shimmering glass just full of dark red wine; there was a flat blue plate filled with little cakes; she touched one and it was full of cream, and heavily iced with soft chocolate. There were pomegranates, and cheese, and small, sharp-flavored candies. She lay down beside the food, and closed her eyes against the heavy scent from the grapes.

“Eat, eat,” the parrot screamed from somewhere over her head. She opened her eyes lazily and looked up, to see the flash of red and yellow in the trees. “Be still, you noisy beast,” she said, and smiled to herself because it was not important, actually, whether the parrot were quiet or not. Later, after she had slept, she ate some of the grapes and the cheese, and several of the rich little cakes. While she ate the parrot came cautiously closer, begging for food, sidling up near to the dish of cakes and then moving quickly away.

“Beast,” she said pleasantly to the parrot, “greedy beast.”

When she was sure she was quite through with the food, she put one of the cakes on a green leaf and set it a little bit away from her for the parrot. It came up to the cake slowly and fearfully, watching on either side for some sudden prohibitive movement; when it finally reached the cake it hesitated, and then dipped its head down to bury its beak in the soft frosting; it lifted its head, paused to look around, and then lowered its beak to the cake again. The gesture was familiar, and she laughed, not knowing why.

She was faintly aware that she had slept again, and awakened wanting to run, to go out into the hot sand on the beach and run shouting around the island. The parrot was gone, its cake a mess of crumbs and frosting on the ground. She ran out onto the beach, and the water was there, and the sky. For a few minutes she ran, going down to the water and then swiftly back before it could touch her bare feet, and then she dropped luxuriously onto the sand and lay there. After a while she began to draw a picture in the sand; it was a round face with dots for eyes and nose and a line for a mouth. “Henry Paul,” she said, touching the face caressingly with her fingers, and then, laughing, she leaped to her feet and began to run again, around the island. When she passed the face drawn on the sand she put one bare foot on it and ground it away. “Eat, eat,” she could hear the parrot calling from the trees; the parrot was afraid of the hot sand and the water and stayed always in the trees near the food. Far off, across the water, she could see the sweet, the always comforting, line of the horizon.

When she was tired with running she lay down again on the sand. For a little while she played idly, writing words on the sand and then rubbing them out with her hand; once she drew a crude picture of a doorway and punched her fist through it.

Finally she lay down and put her face down to the sand. It was hot, hotter than anything else had ever been, and the soft grits of the sand slipped into her mouth, where she could taste them, deliciously hard and grainy against her teeth; they were in her eyes, rich and warm; the sand was covering her face and the blue sky was gone from above her and the sand was cooler, then grayer, covering her face, and cold.

“Nearly home,” Miss Oakes said brightly, as they turned the last corner of their block. “It's been a nice walk, hasn't it?”

She tried, unsuccessfully, to guide Mrs. Montague quickly past the bakery, but Mrs. Montague's feet, moving against Miss Oakes's pressure from habit, brought them up to stand in front of the bakery window.

“I don't know why they leave those fly-specked élairs out here,” Miss Oakes said irritably. “There's nothing less appetizing. Look at that cake; the cream is positively curdled.”

She moved her arm insinuatingly within Mrs. Montague's; “In a few minutes we'll be home,” she said softly, “and then we can have our nice cocktail, and rest for a few minutes, and then dinner.”

“Pretty,” Mrs. Montague said at the cakes. “I want some.”

Miss Oakes shuddered violently. “Don't even say it,” she implored. “Just look at that stuff. You'd be sick for a week.”

She moved Mrs. Montague along, and they came, moving quicker than they had when they started, back to their own doorway where the doorman in gray waited for them. He opened the door and said, beginning with Mrs. Montague and finishing with Miss Oakes, “Have a nice walk?”

“Very pleasant, thank you,” Miss Oakes said agreeably. They passed through the doorway and into the lobby where the open doors of the elevator waited for them. “Dinner soon,” Miss Oakes said as they went across the lobby.

Miss Oakes was careful, on their own floor, to see that Mrs. Montague found the right doorway; while Miss Oakes put the key in the door Mrs. Montague stood waiting without expression.

Mrs. Montague moved forward automatically when the door was opened, and Miss Oakes caught her arm, saying shrilly, “Don't step on it!” Mrs. Montague stopped, and waited, while Miss Oakes picked up the dinner menu from the floor just inside the door; it had been slipped under the door while they were out.

Once inside, Miss Oakes removed Mrs. Montague's rosy hat and the mink coat, and Mrs. Montague took the mink coat in her arms and sat down in her chair with it, smoothing the fur. Miss Oakes slid out of her own coat and hung it neatly in the closet, and then came into the living room, carrying the dinner menu.

“Chicken liver omelette,” Miss Oakes read as she walked. “The last time it was a trifle underdone; I could mention it, of course, but they never seem to pay much attention. Roast turkey. Filet mignon. I really do think a nice little piece of...” she looked up at Mrs. Montague and smiled. “Hungry?” she suggested.

“No,” Mrs. Montague said. “I've had enough.”

“Nice oatmeal?” Miss Oakes said. “If you're very good you can have ice cream tonight.”

“Don't want ice cream,” Mrs. Montague said.

Miss Oakes sighed, and then said “Well...” placatingly. She returned to the menu. “French-fried potatoes,” she said. “They're very heavy on the stomach, but I do have my heart set on a nice little piece of steak and some french-fried potatoes. It sounds just right tonight.”

“Shall I give you this coat?” Mrs. Montague asked suddenly.

Miss Oakes stopped on her way to the phone and patted Mrs. Montague lightly on the shoulder. “You're very generous, dear,” she said, “but of course you don't really want to give me your beautiful coat. What would your dear son say?”

Mrs. Montague ran her hand over the fur of the coat affectionately. Then she stood up, slowly, and the coat slid to the floor.

“I'm going to color,” she announced.

Miss Oakes turned back from the phone to pick up the coat and put it over the back of the chair. “All right,” she said. She went to the phone, sat so she could keep an eye on Mrs. Montague while she talked, and said into the phone “Room service.”

Mrs. Montague moved across the room and sat down at the card table. Reflectively she turned the pages of the coloring book, found a picture that pleased her, and opened the crayon box. Miss Oakes hummed softly into the phone. “Room service?” she said finally. “I want to order dinner sent up to Mrs. Montague's suite, please.” She looked over the phone at Mrs. Montague and said, “You all right, dear?”

Without turning, Mrs. Montague moved her shoulders impatiently, and selected a crayon from the box. She examined the point of it with great care while Miss Oakes said, “I want one very sweet martini, please. And Mrs. Montague's prune juice.” She picked up the menu and wet her lips, then said, “One crab-meat cocktail. And tonight will you see that Mrs. Montague has milk with her oatmeal; you sent cream last night. Yes, milk, please. You'd think they'd know by now,” she added to Mrs. Montague over the top of the phone. “Now let me see,” she said, into the phone again, her eyes on the menu.

Disregarding Miss Oakes, Mrs. Montague had begun to color. Her shoulders bent low over the book, a vague smile on her old face, she was devoting herself to a picture of a farmyard; a hen and three chickens strutted across the foreground of the picture, a barn surrounded by trees was the background. Mrs. Montague had laboriously colored the hen and the three chickens, the barn and the trees a rich blue, and now, with alternate touches of the crayons, was engaged in putting a red and yellow blot far up in the blue trees.

岛

蒙塔古夫人的儿子对老太太很孝顺，把她照顾得无微不至，时不时地嘘寒问暖。这样的儿子现在很难得了，因为他们得应付忙碌的妻子，以及自己小家庭不断的添丁进口。当蒙塔古夫人老糊涂的时候，儿子就自然而然地承担起了看护人的角色。虽然他们现在住的地方几乎相距一千英里，但蒙塔古夫人和儿子有着很浓、很深的感情。亨利·保罗·蒙塔古对自己的母亲能否得到很好的照料颇为关注，他要时时刻刻落实母亲所住公寓每月的账单付清了没有，她的衣食住行如何，陪伴她的人怎样，总之要确保蒙塔古夫人得到最好的照料。他每周都要给她写信，信中充满关切，笔迹工整，询问她的身体情况。每次他来纽约，都会第一时间来看她，而且总是会留下额外的支票给照顾她的人，确保蒙塔古夫人所缺的，哪怕是任何微不足道的东西也要给她置办齐全。照顾蒙塔古夫人的奥克斯小姐已经陪伴老太太有六年了，这些年一成不变、平静如水的生活节奏只被蒙塔古夫人儿子定期的来访打破过。而奥克斯小姐每年有六周的休假时间，临时替代她的人会经过千挑万选，以保证对蒙塔古夫人的照料丝毫不会打折扣。

除了这些偶尔会被打乱的情况，蒙塔古夫人一直安静地住在一间相当不错的公寓里，这间公寓的租金价格不菲，在这里老太太和奥克斯小姐过着有规律的安稳生活，这种生活要求奥克斯小姐尽心尽力地去做安排，并尽职尽责地按时向蒙塔古夫人的儿子做汇报。“我的的确确认为我们很幸运了，亲爱的，”奥克斯小姐经常发着议论，“您有一个像蒙塔古先生这样的好儿子，把我们关照得这么好。”

对此，蒙塔古夫人照例答道：“亨利·保罗是个好孩子。”

蒙塔古夫人上午通常会在床上度过，吃午饭时才起来。在经过洗澡、穿衣、吃饭一番折腾之后，她会再回到床上躺着。然后几乎是雷打不动地在四点钟的时候去散步。再接下来就是晚饭时间了，饭菜是在楼下餐馆订的。晚饭后不久，就又到了蒙塔古夫人上床的时间了。虽然奥克斯小姐除非迫不得已不会离开房间，但她也有很多时间忙活自己的事情。蒙塔古夫人谈不上是最好的看护对象，可奥克斯小姐工作起来还是不紧不慢，得心应手。奥克斯小姐从浏览的杂志上抬起头来，经常会发现蒙塔古夫人正好奇地观察着她。有时，蒙塔古夫人会像小孩子那样使性子，固执己见，无论怎么劝说，就是拒绝吃饭。奥克斯小姐不得不把蒙塔古夫人的医生请来，让老太太好好听一听医生的一番义正词严的说教，让她明白作为病人应该怎样去做。有一次，蒙塔古夫人想逃跑，在路口正茫然四顾时，让奥克斯小姐在公寓楼前的大街上逮了个正着。老太太总是没完没了地送给奥克斯小姐东西，而且态度绝对很坦诚，这让奥克斯得煞费周章地拒绝她。

奥克斯小姐出身贫寒，蒙塔古夫人心知肚明。奥克斯小姐以前很辛苦地工作，可从未拥有过自己的皮毛外套。无论奥克斯小姐如何煞费苦心，她依然无法掩饰这样的事实，尽管楼下餐馆送来的饭菜加工得色香味俱全，可她还是要往里面加些作料。人们都说奥克斯小姐对珠宝一类的东西不屑一顾，在百货商店买衣服时，她往往在一位不耐烦的、着装很差劲的销售小姐的注视下，匆匆忙忙地买上一件便宜的衣服。无论奥克斯小姐如何懊恼地辩解，那些在廉价服装店讨巧的灯光下看上去还不错的衣服，等她买回去，在日光下都证明了是那么俗气。要么是难看的红和黄色，要么条纹不直、圆点不整，裁剪得也很糟糕。奥克斯小姐有时可怜巴巴地想，还是那些整齐地挂在衣橱中的白制服，穿起来不至于露怯，但是蒙塔古夫人对于能够暴露出奥克斯小姐职业痕迹的任何装束都大为不满，所以，每天晚上奥克斯小姐都会身穿红黄相间的裙子，享用从楼下餐馆送来的可口饭菜。她未加染色的头发很散乱地在脑后扎了个髻，没有戴戒指的双手在盘子之间惬意地移动。蒙塔古夫人通常会把吃的弄得满身全是，但是每隔三四个月，她都会从附近的服装专卖店中刻意订制一些衣服，而有关衣服的尺寸和颜色等信息，已经提前告诉店家了。柔声细语的销售小姐把完全合身的衣服给蒙塔古夫人送上门即可。蒙塔古夫人一般每次会挑上两件衣服，于是衣服被整齐地挂在了有香囊的挂钩上，和其他类似的衣服一起，安稳地住进了蒙塔古夫人的衣柜中，所有的衣服都是浅蓝、浅灰和淡紫色的。

“我们必须对漂亮衣服多加爱护。”奥克斯小姐说道。她从晚餐中抬起头，发现蒙塔古夫人，有时似乎是故意地把一满勺的燕麦粥扣在了衣服前襟上。“亲爱的，我们真的得多加小心了，想想您的好儿子为这些衣服花了多少钱呐。”

蒙塔古夫人手里拿着勺子，有时茫然地瞪大眼睛，有时会说：“我现在想吃布丁了，我会对我的布丁多加小心的。”时不时地，蒙塔古夫人通常在某一天身体难受，或者是累过头了，或者是因为某件事不高兴了的时候，她会把一碗的燕麦粥倒扣在桌布上。奥克斯小姐往往也会生气，于是蒙塔古夫人便被剥夺了享用布丁的权利，呆坐在那里。而奥克斯小姐便把她自己的碟子和碗挪到咖啡桌上，叫侍者把沾满燕麦粥的桌布撤走。

晚春时节，通常是蒙塔古夫人的状况最糟糕的时候。那时，由于某种原因，似乎是万物萌生，甚至肮脏的城市交通都传递着某种骚动和渴望的气息，以至于她能间歇性地感受到一年之中剩下的日子会怎样。大约在四月份或者五月份的时候，奥克斯小姐就要开始准备应对麻烦了，她得提防老太太自己跑出门，或者把燕麦粥完全打翻。在夏天，蒙塔古夫人似乎开心多了，因为她有可能去公园里散步，喂小松鼠了。在秋天，她变得安静了，为漫长的冬天做着准备。在冬天她就像动物一样，几乎要冬眠了。她很少说话，忍受着别人给她穿衣、脱衣的摆布，丝毫没有反抗。而恰恰冬天是奥克斯小姐最放松的时候，虽然过不了几个月就该到春天了，奥克斯小姐开始更多地考虑要放弃她的工作、可观的薪水，还有从楼下餐馆送来的可口饭菜了。

也就是在这年春天，蒙塔古夫人频繁地想送给奥克斯小姐东西。一天下午，因为下雨，她们例常的散步只能暂时放弃。蒙塔古夫人习惯性地走到厅里的衣柜前，拿出了她的外套。现在她坐在扶手椅上，那件深黑色的貂皮外套搭在她的膝头，她用手摩挲着皮毛，好像怀抱着一只猫，“漂亮，”蒙塔古夫人不停地嘟囔道，“漂亮，漂亮。”