What was settled between us, accordingly, that night, was that we thought we might bear things together; and I was not even sure that, in spite of her exemption13, it was she who had the best of the burden. I knew at this hour, I think, as well as I knew later, what I was capable of meeting to shelter my pupils; but it took me some time to be wholly sure of what my honest ally was prepared for to keep terms with so compromising a contract. I was queer company enough—quite as queer as the company I received; but as I trace over what we went through I see how much common ground we must have found in the one idea that, by good fortune, could steady us. It was the idea, the second movement, that led me straight out, as I may say, of the inner chamber14 of my dread1. I could take the air in the court, at least, and there Mrs. Grose could join me. Perfectly15 can I recall now the particular way strength came to me before we separated for the night. We had gone over and over every feature of what I had seen.
“He was looking for someone else, you say—someone who was not you?”
“He was looking for little Miles.” A portentous16 clearness now possessed17 me. “That’s whom he was looking for.”
“But how do you know?”
“I know, I know, I know!” My exaltation grew. “And you know, my dear!”
She didn’t deny this, but I required, I felt, not even so much telling as that. She resumed in a moment, at any rate: “What if he should see him?”
“Little Miles? That’s what he wants!”
She looked immensely scared again. “The child?”
“Heaven forbid! The man. He wants to appear to them.” That he might was an awful conception, and yet, somehow, I could keep it at bay; which, moreover, as we lingered there, was what I succeeded in practically proving. I had an absolute certainty that I should see again what I had already seen, but something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the sole subject of such experience, by accepting, by inviting18, by surmounting19 it all, I should serve as an expiatory20 victim and guard the tranquility of my companions. The children, in especial, I should thus fence about and absolutely save. I recall one of the last things I said that night to Mrs. Grose.
“It does strike me that my pupils have never mentioned—”
She looked at me hard as I musingly21 pulled up. “His having been here and the time they were with him?”
“The time they were with him, and his name, his presence, his history, in any way.”
“Oh, the little lady doesn’t remember. She never heard or knew.”
“The circumstances of his death?” I thought with some intensity22. “Perhaps not. But Miles would remember—Miles would know.”
“Ah, don’t try him!” broke from Mrs. Grose.
I returned her the look she had given me. “Don’t be afraid.” I continued to think. “It is rather odd.”
“That he has never spoken of him?”
“Oh, it wasn’t him!” Mrs. Grose with emphasis declared. “It was Quint’s own fancy. To play with him, I mean—to spoil him.” She paused a moment; then she added: “Quint was much too free.”
This gave me, straight from my vision of his face—such a face!—a sudden sickness of disgust. “Too free with my boy?”
“Too free with everyone!”
I forbore, for the moment, to analyze24 this description further than by the reflection that a part of it applied25 to several of the members of the household, of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. But there was everything, for our apprehension26, in the lucky fact that no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever, within anyone’s memory attached to the kind old place. It had neither bad name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose, most apparently27, only desired to cling to me and to quake in silence. I even put her, the very last thing of all, to the test. It was when, at midnight, she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave. “I have it from you then—for it’s of great importance—that he was definitely and admittedly bad?”
“Oh, not admittedly. I knew it—but the master didn’t.”
“And you never told him?”
“Well, he didn’t like tale-bearing—he hated complaints. He was terribly short with anything of that kind, and if people were all right to him—”
“He wouldn’t be bothered with more?” This squared well enough with my impressions of him: he was not a trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very particular perhaps about some of the company he kept. All the same, I pressed my interlocutress. “I promise you I would have told!”
She felt my discrimination. “I daresay I was wrong. But, really, I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of things that man could do. Quint was so clever—he was so deep.”
I took this in still more than, probably, I showed. “You weren’t afraid of anything else? Not of his effect—?”
“On innocent little precious lives. They were in your charge.”
“No, they were not in mine!” she roundly and distressfully returned. “The master believed in him and placed him here because he was supposed not to be well and the country air so good for him. So he had everything to say. Yes”—she let me have it—“even about them.”
“No. I couldn’t—and I can’t now!” And the poor woman burst into tears.
A rigid31 control, from the next day, was, as I have said, to follow them; yet how often and how passionately32, for a week, we came back together to the subject! Much as we had discussed it that Sunday night, I was, in the immediate33 later hours in especial—for it may be imagined whether I slept—still haunted with the shadow of something she had not told me. I myself had kept back nothing, but there was a word Mrs. Grose had kept back. I was sure, moreover, by morning, that this was not from a failure of frankness, but because on every side there were fears. It seems to me indeed, in retrospect34, that by the time the morrow’s sun was high I had restlessly read into the fact before us almost all the meaning they were to receive from subsequent and more cruel occurrences. What they gave me above all was just the sinister35 figure of the living man—the dead one would keep awhile!—and of the months he had continuously passed at Bly, which, added up, made a formidable stretch. The limit of this evil time had arrived only when, on the dawn of a winter’s morning, Peter Quint was found, by a laborer36 going to early work, stone dead on the road from the village: a catastrophe37 explained—superficially at least—by a visible wound to his head; such a wound as might have been produced—and as, on the final evidence, had been—by a fatal slip, in the dark and after leaving the public house, on the steepish icy slope, a wrong path altogether, at the bottom of which he lay. The icy slope, the turn mistaken at night and in liquor, accounted for much—practically, in the end and after the inquest and boundless38 chatter39, for everything; but there had been matters in his life—strange passages and perils40, secret disorders41, vices42 more than suspected—that would have accounted for a good deal more.
I scarce know how to put my story into words that shall be a credible43 picture of my state of mind; but I was in these days literally44 able to find a joy in the extraordinary flight of heroism45 the occasion demanded of me. I now saw that I had been asked for a service admirable and difficult; and there would be a greatness in letting it be seen—oh, in the right quarter!—that I could succeed where many another girl might have failed. It was an immense help to me—I confess I rather applaud myself as I look back!—that I saw my service so strongly and so simply. I was there to protect and defend the little creatures in the world the most bereaved46 and the most lovable, the appeal of whose helplessness had suddenly become only too explicit47, a deep, constant ache of one’s own committed heart. We were cut off, really, together; we were united in our danger. They had nothing but me, and I—well, I had them. It was in short a magnificent chance. This chance presented itself to me in an image richly material. I was a screen—I was to stand before them. The more I saw, the less they would. I began to watch them in a stifled48 suspense49, a disguised excitement that might well, had it continued too long, have turned to something like madness. What saved me, as I now see, was that it turned to something else altogether. It didn’t last as suspense—it was superseded50 by horrible proofs. Proofs, I say, yes—from the moment I really took hold.
This moment dated from an afternoon hour that I happened to spend in the grounds with the younger of my pupils alone. We had left Miles indoors, on the red cushion of a deep window seat; he had wished to finish a book, and I had been glad to encourage a purpose so laudable in a young man whose only defect was an occasional excess of the restless. His sister, on the contrary, had been alert to come out, and I strolled with her half an hour, seeking the shade, for the sun was still high and the day exceptionally warm. I was aware afresh, with her, as we went, of how, like her brother, she contrived—it was the charming thing in both children—to let me alone without appearing to drop me and to accompany me without appearing to surround. They were never importunate51 and yet never listless. My attention to them all really went to seeing them amuse themselves immensely without me: this was a spectacle they seemed actively52 to prepare and that engaged me as an active admirer. I walked in a world of their invention—they had no occasion whatever to draw upon mine; so that my time was taken only with being, for them, some remarkable53 person or thing that the game of the moment required and that was merely, thanks to my superior, my exalted54 stamp, a happy and highly distinguished55 sinecure56. I forget what I was on the present occasion; I only remember that I was something very important and very quiet and that Flora57 was playing very hard. We were on the edge of the lake, and, as we had lately begun geography, the lake was the Sea of Azof.
Suddenly, in these circumstances, I became aware that, on the other side of the Sea of Azof, we had an interested spectator. The way this knowledge gathered in me was the strangest thing in the world—the strangest, that is, except the very much stranger in which it quickly merged58 itself. I had sat down with a piece of work—for I was something or other that could sit—on the old stone bench which overlooked the pond; and in this position I began to take in with certitude, and yet without direct vision, the presence, at a distance, of a third person. The old trees, the thick shrubbery, made a great and pleasant shade, but it was all suffused59 with the brightness of the hot, still hour. There was no ambiguity60 in anything; none whatever, at least, in the conviction I from one moment to another found myself forming as to what I should see straight before me and across the lake as a consequence of raising my eyes. They were attached at this juncture61 to the stitching in which I was engaged, and I can feel once more the spasm62 of my effort not to move them till I should so have steadied myself as to be able to make up my mind what to do. There was an alien object in view—a figure whose right of presence I instantly, passionately questioned. I recollect63 counting over perfectly the possibilities, reminding myself that nothing was more natural, for instance, then the appearance of one of the men about the place, or even of a messenger, a postman, or a tradesman’s boy, from the village. That reminder64 had as little effect on my practical certitude as I was conscious—still even without looking—of its having upon the character and attitude of our visitor. Nothing was more natural than that these things should be the other things that they absolutely were not.
Of the positive identity of the apparition65 I would assure myself as soon as the small clock of my courage should have ticked out the right second; meanwhile, with an effort that was already sharp enough, I transferred my eyes straight to little Flora, who, at the moment, was about ten yards away. My heart had stood still for an instant with the wonder and terror of the question whether she too would see; and I held my breath while I waited for what a cry from her, what some sudden innocent sign either of interest or of alarm, would tell me. I waited, but nothing came; then, in the first place—and there is something more dire9 in this, I feel, than in anything I have to relate—I was determined66 by a sense that, within a minute, all sounds from her had previously67 dropped; and, in the second, by the circumstance that, also within the minute, she had, in her play, turned her back to the water. This was her attitude when I at last looked at her—looked with the confirmed conviction that we were still, together, under direct personal notice. She had picked up a small flat piece of wood, which happened to have in it a little hole that had evidently suggested to her the idea of sticking in another fragment that might figure as a mast and make the thing a boat. This second morsel68, as I watched her, she was very markedly and intently attempting to tighten69 in its place. My apprehension of what she was doing sustained me so that after some seconds I felt I was ready for more. Then I again shifted my eyes—I faced what I had to face.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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2
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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7
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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8
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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9
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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10
impugning
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| v.非难，指谪( impugn的现在分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
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11
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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14
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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15
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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16
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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19
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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20
expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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21
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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24
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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25
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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28
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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29
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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30
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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31
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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32
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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33
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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34
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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37
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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40
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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41
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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42
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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43
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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45
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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46
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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47
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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48
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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49
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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50
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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51
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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52
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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53
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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54
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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56
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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57
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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58
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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59
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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61
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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62
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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63
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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64
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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65
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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66
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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67
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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68
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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69
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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