Поворот винта

           Lessonswithme,indeed,thatcharmingsummer,weallhadatheorythathewastohave;butInowfeelthat,forweeks,thelessonsmusthavebeenrathermyown.Ilearnedsomething—atfirst,certainly—thathadnotbeenoneoftheteachingsofmysmall,smotheredlife;learnedtobeamused,andevenamusing,andnottothinkforthemorrow.Itwasthefirsttime,inamanner,thatIhadknownspaceandairandfreedom,allthemusicofsummerandallthemysteryofnature.Andthentherewasconsideration—andconsiderationwassweet.Oh,itwasatrap—notdesigned,butdeep—tomyimagination,tomydelicacy,perhapstomyvanity;towhatever,inme,wasmostexcitable.ThebestwaytopictureitallistosaythatIwasoffmyguard.Theygavemesolittletrouble—theywereofagentlenesssoextraordinary.Iusedtospeculate—buteventhiswithadimdisconnectedness—astohowtheroughfuture(forallfuturesarerough!)wouldhandlethemandmightbruisethem.Theyhadthebloomofhealthandhappiness;andyet,asifIhadbeeninchargeofapairoflittlegrandees,ofprincesoftheblood,forwhomeverything,toberight,wouldhavetobeenclosedandprotected,theonlyformthat,inmyfancy,theafteryearscouldtakeforthemwasthatofaromantic,areallyroyalextensionofthegardenandthepark.Itmaybe,ofcourse,aboveall,thatwhatsuddenlybrokeintothisgivestheprevioustimeacharmofstillness—thathushinwhichsomethinggathersorcrouches.Thechangewasactuallylikethespringofabeast.