Читать книгу Поворот винта. Уровень 1 / The Turn of the Screw - Генри Джеймс, Henry Foss James - Страница 7

Oh, she told me right away, when she came. “What’s wrong?” She was out of breath.

I didn’t say anything until she came closer. “With me? I must have made a strange face. Do I show it?”

“You’re as white as a sheet. You look terrible.”

I thought about it; I could tell her the truth. I held her hand tightly for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her being close to me. There was comfort in the surprise on her shy face. “You came to get me for church, of course, but I can’t go.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes. You need to know now. Did I look very strange?”

“Through this window? Terrible!”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been scared. What you saw from the dining room a minute ago was similar to what I saw. But what I saw was much worse.”

Her hand tightened. “What was it?”

“A strange man. Looking in.”

“What strange man?”

“I don’t know at all.”

Mrs. Grose looked around but couldn’t find him. “Then where did he go?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you seen him before?”

“Yes, once. On the old tower.”

“Do you mean he’s a stranger?”

“Oh, very much!”

“Yet you didn’t tell me?”

“No, for reasons. But now that you’ve guessed—”

“Ah, I didn’t guess!” she said simply. “You’ve only seen him on the tower?”

“And on this spot just now.”

Mrs. Grose looked around again. “What was he doing on the tower?”

“Just standing there and looking down at me.”

She thought for a moment. “Was he a gentleman?”

I realized I didn’t need to think. “No.” She looked in deeper wonder.

“No.”

“Then nobody around? Nobody from the village?”

“Nobody—nobody. I didn’t tell you, but I was sure.”

“But if he’s not a gentleman—”

“What is he? He’s a horror.”

“A horror?”

“He’s—God help me, I have no idea!”

Mrs. Grose looked around again, then she turned to me and suddenly said, “It’s time for us to go to church.”

“Oh, I can’t go to church!”

“Won’t it be good for you?”

“It won’t be good for them!” I nodded[25] toward the house.

“The children?”

“I can’t leave them now.”

“You’re afraid—?”

“I’m afraid of him.”

“When was it—on the tower?”

“About in the middle of the month. Around this time.”

“Almost in the dark?” asked Mrs. Grose.

“Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as clearly as I see you.”

“So how did he get in?”

“And how did he get out?” I laughed. “I didn’t have a chance to ask him! Tonight, you see,” I continued, “he hasn’t been able to get in.”

“He only peeps[26]?”

“I hope that’s all it will be!” She let go of my hand and turned away. I waited for a moment, then I said, “Go to church. Goodbye. I have to watch.”

Slowly, she turned to me again. “Are you worried about them?”

We looked at each other for a while. “Aren’t you?” Instead of answering, she moved closer to the window and pressed her face against the glass for a minute. “You see how he could see,” I continued talking.

She stayed still. “How long was he here?”

“Until I came out. I came to meet him.”

Finally, Mrs. Grose turned around, and said, “I couldn’t have come out.”

“Neither could I!” I laughed again. “But I did come. I have my duty.”

“I have mine too,” she replied. Then she asked, “What does he look like?”

“I’ve been dying to tell you. But he’s like nobody.”

“Nobody?” she echoed.

“He has no hat.” Then I noticed the look on her face and realized she had already begun to imagine a picture, which made her even more confused. So I quickly described him. “He has very red curly hair, and a long pale face. He has small, strange-looking eyes. His mouth is wide, with thin lips, and he only has little, strange red whiskers[27]. His eyebrows are darker and look like they might move a lot. He looks like an actor.”

“An actor!”

“I’ve never seen one, but that’s what I think they look like. He’s tall, active, and stands up straight, but he’s definitely not a gentleman.”

As I continued, my friend’s face became pale, “Not a gentleman? He?”

“So you know him then?”

“But is he handsome?”

“Very much so!”

“And how is he dressed?”

“He is wearing someone else’s clothes. They are stylish, but they don’t belong to him.”

She cried, “They belong to the master!”

“So you do know him?”

“Quint!” she cried.

“Quint?”

“Peter Quint—his valet[28], when he was here!”

“When the master was here?”

“He never wore his hat. They were both here—last year. Then the master left, and Quint was alone.”

I followed, but stopped a bit. “Alone?”

“Alone with us,” she added, “In charge.”

“And what happened to him?”

She took so long to answer that I became even more confused. “He went, too,” she finally said.

“Went where?”

“God knows where! He died.”

“Died?” I almost shouted.

“Yes. Mr. Quint is dead.”