【有声英语文学名著】螺丝在拧紧（20）

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by Henry James

XX

 

Just as in the churchyard with Miles, the whole thing was upon us. Much as I had made of the fact that this name had never once, between us, been sounded, the quick, smitten¹ glare with which the child’s face now received it fairly likened my breach² of the silence to the smash of a pane³ of glass. It added to the interposing cry, as if to stay the blow, that Mrs. Grose, at the same instant, uttered over my violence — the shriek⁴ of a creature scared, or rather wounded, which, in turn, within a few seconds, was completed by a gasp⁵ of my own. I seized my colleague’s arm. “She’s there, she’s there!”

Miss Jessel stood before us on the opposite bank exactly as she had stood the other time, and I remember, strangely, as the first feeling now produced in me, my thrill of joy at having brought on a proof. She was there, and I was justified⁶; she was there, and I was neither cruel nor mad. She was there for poor scared Mrs. Grose, but she was there most for Flora⁷; and no moment of my monstrous⁸ time was perhaps so extraordinary as that in which I consciously threw out to her — with the sense that, pale and ravenous⁹ demon¹⁰ as she was, she would catch and understand it — an inarticulate message of gratitude¹¹. She rose erect¹² on the spot my friend and I had lately quitted, and there was not, in all the long reach of her desire, an inch of her evil that fell short. This first vividness of vision and emotion were things of a few seconds, during which Mrs. Grose’s dazed blink across to where I pointed¹³ struck me as a sovereign sign that she too at last saw, just as it carried my own eyes precipitately¹⁴ to the child. The revelation then of the manner in which Flora was affected¹⁵ startled me, in truth, far more than it would have done to find her also merely agitated¹⁷, for direct dismay was of course not what I had expected. Prepared and on her guard as our pursuit had actually made her, she would repress every betrayal; and I was therefore shaken, on the spot, by my first glimpse of the particular one for which I had not allowed. To see her, without a convulsion of her small pink face, not even feign¹⁸ to glance in the direction of the prodigy¹⁹ I announced, but only, instead of that, turn at ME an expression of hard, still gravity, an expression absolutely new and unprecedented²⁰ and that appeared to read and accuse and judge me — this was a stroke that somehow converted the little girl herself into the very presence that could make me quail²¹. I quailed²² even though my certitude that she thoroughly²³ saw was never greater than at that instant, and in the immediate²⁴ need to defend myself I called it passionately²⁵ to witness. “She’s there, you little unhappy thing — there, there, THERE, and you see her as well as you see me!” I had said shortly before to Mrs. Grose that she was not at these times a child, but an old, old woman, and that description of her could not have been more strikingly confirmed than in the way in which, for all answer to this, she simply showed me, without a concession²⁶, an admission, of her eyes, a countenance²⁷ of deeper and deeper, of indeed suddenly quite fixed²⁸, reprobation²⁹. I was by this time — if I can put the whole thing at all together — more appalled³⁰ at what I may properly call her manner than at anything else, though it was simultaneously³¹ with this that I became aware of having Mrs. Grose also, and very formidably, to reckon with. My elder companion, the next moment, at any rate, blotted³² out everything but her own flushed face and her loud, shocked protest, a burst of high disapproval³³. “What a dreadful turn, to be sure, miss! Where on earth do you see anything?”

I could only grasp her more quickly yet, for even while she spoke³⁴ the hideous³⁵ plain presence stood undimmed and undaunted. It had already lasted a minute, and it lasted while I continued, seizing my colleague, quite thrusting her at it and presenting her to it, to insist with my pointing hand. “You don’t see her exactly as WE see? — you mean to say you don’t now — NOW? She’s as big as a blazing fire! Only look, dearest woman, LOOK—!” She looked, even as I did, and gave me, with her deep groan³⁶ of negation³⁷, repulsion, compassion³⁸ — the mixture with her pity of her relief at her exemption³⁹ — a sense, touching⁴⁰ to me even then, that she would have backed me up if she could. I might well have needed that, for with this hard blow of the proof that her eyes were hopelessly sealed I felt my own situation horribly crumble⁴¹, I felt — I saw — my livid predecessor⁴² press, from her position, on my defeat, and I was conscious, more than all, of what I should have from this instant to deal with in the astounding⁴³ little attitude of Flora. Into this attitude Mrs. Grose immediately and violently entered, breaking, even while there pierced through my sense of ruin a prodigious⁴⁴ private triumph, into breathless reassurance⁴⁵.

“She isn’t there, little lady, and nobody’s there — and you never see nothing, my sweet! How can poor Miss Jessel — when poor Miss Jessel’s dead and buried? WE know, don’t we, love? — and she appealed, blundering in, to the child. “It’s all a mere¹⁶ mistake and a worry and a joke — and we’ll go home as fast as we can!”

Our companion, on this, had responded with a strange, quick primness⁴⁶ of propriety⁴⁷, and they were again, with Mrs. Grose on her feet, united, as it were, in pained opposition⁴⁸ to me. Flora continued to fix me with her small mask of reprobation, and even at that minute I prayed God to forgive me for seeming to see that, as she stood there holding tight to our friend’s dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly failed, had quite vanished. I’ve said it already — she was literally⁴⁹, she was hideously⁵⁰, hard; she had turned common and almost ugly. “I don’t know what you mean. I see nobody. I see nothing. I never HAVE. I think you’re cruel. I don’t like you!” Then, after this deliverance, which might have been that of a vulgarly pert little girl in the street, she hugged Mrs. Grose more closely and buried in her skirts the dreadful little face. In this position she produced an almost furious wail⁵¹. “Take me away, take me away — oh, take me away from HER!”

“From ME?” I panted.

“From you — from you!” she cried.

Even Mrs. Grose looked across at me dismayed, while I had nothing to do but communicate again with the figure that, on the opposite bank, without a movement, as rigidly⁵² still as if catching⁵³, beyond the interval⁵⁴, our voices, was as vividly⁵⁵ there for my disaster as it was not there for my service. The wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and I could therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly shake my head at her. “If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would at present have gone. I’ve been living with the miserable⁵⁶ truth, and now it has only too much closed round me. Of course I’ve lost you: I’ve interfered⁵⁷, and you’ve seen — under HER dictation” — with which I faced, over the pool again, our infernal witness — “the easy and perfect way to meet it. I’ve done my best, but I’ve lost you. Goodbye.” For Mrs. Grose I had an imperative⁵⁸, an almost frantic⁵⁹ “Go, go!” before which, in infinite distress⁶⁰, but mutely possessed⁶¹ of the little girl and clearly convinced, in spite of her blindness, that something awful had occurred and some collapse⁶² engulfed⁶³ us, she retreated, by the way we had come, as fast as she could move.

Of what first happened when I was left alone I had no subsequent memory. I only knew that at the end of, I suppose, a quarter of an hour, an odorous dampness and roughness, chilling and piercing my trouble, had made me understand that I must have thrown myself, on my face, on the ground and given way to a wildness of grief. I must have lain there long and cried and sobbed⁶⁴, for when I raised my head the day was almost done. I got up and looked a moment, through the twilight⁶⁵, at the gray pool and its blank, haunted edge, and then I took, back to the house, my dreary⁶⁶ and difficult course. When I reached the gate in the fence the boat, to my surprise, was gone, so that I had a fresh reflection to make on Flora’s extraordinary command of the situation. She passed that night, by the most tacit, and I should add, were not the word so grotesque⁶⁷ a false note, the happiest of arrangements, with Mrs. Grose. I saw neither of them on my return, but, on the other hand, as by an ambiguous compensation, I saw a great deal of Miles. I saw — I can use no other phrase — so much of him that it was as if it were more than it had ever been. No evening I had passed at Bly had the portentous⁶⁸ quality of this one; in spite of which — and in spite also of the deeper depths of consternation⁶⁹ that had opened beneath my feet — there was literally, in the ebbing⁷⁰ actual, an extraordinarily⁷¹ sweet sadness. On reaching the house I had never so much as looked for the boy; I had simply gone straight to my room to change what I was wearing and to take in, at a glance, much material testimony⁷² to Flora’s rupture⁷³. Her little belongings⁷⁴ had all been removed. When later, by the schoolroom fire, I was served with tea by the usual maid, I indulged, on the article of my other pupil, in no inquiry⁷⁵ whatever. He had his freedom now — he might have it to the end! Well, he did have it; and it consisted — in part at least — of his coming in at about eight o’clock and sitting down with me in silence. On the removal of the tea things I had blown out the candles and drawn⁷⁶ my chair closer: I was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt as if I should never again be warm. So, when he appeared, I was sitting in the glow with my thoughts. He paused a moment by the door as if to look at me; then — as if to share them — came to the other side of the hearth⁷⁷ and sank into a chair. We sat there in absolute stillness; yet he wanted, I felt, to be with me.

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