【有声英语文学名著】螺丝在拧紧（24）

The Turn of the Screw
by Henry James
XXIV
 
My sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention — a stroke that at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere 1 blind movement of getting hold of him, drawing him close, and, while I just fell for support against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively 2 keeping him with his back to the window. The appearance was full upon us that I had already had to deal with here: Peter Quint had come into view like a sentinel before a prison. The next thing I saw was that, from outside, he had reached the window, and then I knew that, close to the glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the room his white face of damnation. It represents but grossly what took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made; yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time recovered her grasp of the ACT. It came to me in the very horror of the immediate 3 presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware 4. The inspiration — I can call it by no other name — was that I felt how voluntarily, how transcendently, I MIGHT. It was like fighting with a demon 5 for a human soul, and when I had fairly so appraised 6 it I saw how the human soul — held out, in the tremor 7 of my hands, at arm’s length — had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead. The face that was close to mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much further away, that I drank like a waft 8 of fragrance 9.
“Yes — I took it.”
At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew him close; and while I held him to my breast, where I could feel in the sudden fever of his little body the tremendous pulse of his little heart, I kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it move and shift its posture 10. I have likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled beast. My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame. Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed 11 as if to watch and wait. It was the very confidence that I might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude, by this time, of the child’s unconsciousness, that made me go on. “What did you take it for?”
“To see what you said about me.”
“You opened the letter?”
“I opened it.”
My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles’s own face, in which the collapse 12 of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage 13 of uneasiness. What was prodigious 14 was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and — by my personal triumph — the influence quenched 15? There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get ALL. “And you found nothing!” — I let my elation 16 out.
He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, nothing!” I almost shouted in my joy.
“Nothing, nothing,” he sadly repeated.
I kissed his forehead; it was drenched 17. “So what have you done with it?”
“I’ve burned it.”
“Burned it?” It was now or never. “Is that what you did at school?”
Oh, what this brought up! “At school?”
“Did you take letters? — or other things?”
“Other things?” He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. “Did I STEAL?”
I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. “Was it for that you mightn’t go back?”
The only thing he felt was rather a dreary 18 little surprise. “Did you know I mightn’t go back?”
“I know everything.”
He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. “Everything?”
“Everything. Therefore DID you —?” But I couldn’t say it again.
Miles could, very simply. “No. I didn’t steal.”
My face must have shown him I believed him utterly 19; yet my hands — but it was for pure tenderness — shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned 20 me to months of torment 21. “What then did you do?”
He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing 22 at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight 23. “Well — I said things.”
“Only that?”
“They thought it was enough!”
“To turn you out for?”
Never, truly, had a person “turned out” shown so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. “Well, I suppose I oughtn’t.”
“But to whom did you say them?”
He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped — he had lost it. “I don’t know!”
He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left it there. But I was infatuated — I was blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to have brought him so much nearer was already that of added separation. “Was it to everyone?” I asked.
“No; it was only to — ” But he gave a sick little headshake. “I don’t remember their names.”
“Were they then so many?”
“No — only a few. Those I liked.”
Those he liked? I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling 24 alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant confounding and bottomless, for if he WERE innocent, what then on earth was I? Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, I let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned away from me again; which, as he faced toward the clear window, I suffered, feeling that I had nothing now there to keep him from. “And did they repeat what you said?” I went on after a moment.
He was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again with the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against his will. Once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable anxiety. “Oh, yes,” he nevertheless replied — “they must have repeated them. To those THEY liked,” he added.
There was, somehow, less of it than I had expected; but I turned it over. “And these things came round —?”
“To the masters? Oh, yes!” he answered very simply. “But I didn’t know they’d tell.”
“The masters? They didn’t — they’ve never told. That’s why I ask you.”
He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. “Yes, it was too bad.”
“Too bad?”
“What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home.”
I can’t name the exquisite 25 pathos 26 of the contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard myself throw off with homely 27 force: “Stuff and nonsense!” But the next after that I must have sounded stern enough. “What WERE these things?”
My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert 28 himself again, and that movement made ME, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against the glass, as if to blight 29 his confession 30 and stay his answer, was the hideous 31 author of our woe 32 — the white face of damnation. I felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. I saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination 33, and on the perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free, I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax 34 of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. “No more, no more, no more!” I shrieked 35, as I tried to press him against me, to my visitant.
“Is she HERE?” Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction of my words. Then as his strange “she” staggered me and, with a gasp 36, I echoed it, “Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!” he with a sudden fury gave me back.
I seized, stupefied, his supposition — some sequel to what we had done to Flora 37, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that. “It’s not Miss Jessel! But it’s at the window — straight before us. It’s THERE— the coward horror, there for the last time!”
At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled dog’s on a scent 38 and then gave a frantic 39 little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. “It’s HE?”
I was so determined 40 to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge him. “Whom do you mean by ‘he’?”
“Peter Quint — you devil!” His face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication 41. “WHERE?”
They are in my ears still, his supreme 42 surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. “What does he matter now, my own? — what will he EVER matter? I have you,” I launched at the beast, “but he has lost you forever!” Then, for the demonstration 43 of my work, “There, THERE!” I said to Miles.
But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled 44 over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching 45 him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him — it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.
 
The End