Поворот гвинта
The Turn of the Screw
Icouldwritetomymanandenclosethekey;hecouldsenddownthepacketashefindsit.”Itwastomeinparticularthatheappearedtopropoundthis—appearedalmosttoappealforaidnottohesitate.Hehadbrokenathicknessofice,theformationofmanyawinter;hadhadhisreasonsforalongsilence.Theothersresentedpostponement,butitwasjusthisscruplesthatcharmedme.Iadjuredhimtowritebythefirstpostandtoagreewithusforanearlyhearing;thenIaskedhimiftheexperienceinquestionhadbeenhisown.Tothishisanswerwasprompt.“Oh,thankGod,no!”
“Andistherecordyours?Youtookthethingdown?”
“Nothingbuttheimpression.Itookthathere”—hetappedhisheart.“I’veneverlostit.”
“Thenyourmanuscript—?”
“Isinold,fadedink,andinthemostbeautifulhand.”Hehungfireagain.“Awoman’s.Shehasbeendeadthesetwentyyears.Shesentmethepagesinquestionbeforeshedied.”Theywerealllisteningnow,andofcoursetherewassomebodytobearch,oratanyratetodrawtheinference.Butifheputtheinferencebywithoutasmileitwasalsowithoutirritation.“Shewasamostcharmingperson,butshewastenyearsolderthanI.Shewasmysister’sgoverness,”hequietlysaid.“ShewasthemostagreeablewomanI’veeverknowninherposition;shewouldhavebeenworthyofanywhatever.Itwaslongago,andthisepisodewaslongbefore.IwasatTrinity,andIfoundherathomeonmycomingdownthesecondsummer.
