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XI

It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose; the rigor with which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately, and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking—on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the children—any suspicion of a secret flurry or that of a discussion of mysteries. I drew a great security in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. There was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. She believed me, I was sure, absolutely: if she hadn't I don't know what would have become of me, for I couldn't have borne the business alone. But she was a magnificent monument to the blessing of a want of imagination, and if she could see in our little charges nothing but their beauty and amiability, their happiness and cleverness, she had no direct communication with the sources of my trouble. If they had been at all visibly blighted or battered, she would doubtless have grown, on tracing it back, haggard enough to match them; as matters stood, however, I could feel her, when she surveyed them, with her large white arms folded and the habit of serenity in all her look, thank the Lord's mercy that if they were ruined the pieces would still serve. Flights of fancy gave place, in her mind, to a steady fireside glow, and I had already begun to perceive how, with the development of the conviction that—as time went on without a public accident—our young things could, after all, look out for themselves, she addressed her greatest solicitude to the sad case presented by their instructress. That, for myself, was a sound simplification: I could engage that, to the world, my face should tell no tales, but it would have been, in the conditions, an immense added strain to find myself anxious about hers.

At the hour I now speak of she had joined me, under pressure, on the terrace, where, with the lapse of the season, the afternoon sun was now agreeable; and we sat there together while, before us, at a distance, but within call if we wished, the children strolled to and fro in one of their most manageable moods. They moved slowly, in unison, below us, over the lawn, the boy, as they went, reading aloud from a storybook and passing his arm round his sister to keep her quite in touch. Mrs. Grose watched them with positive placidity; then I caught the suppressed intellectual creak with which she conscientiously turned to take from me a view of the back of the tapestry. I had made her a receptacle of lurid things, but there was an odd recognition of my superiority—my accomplishments and my function—in her patience under my pain. She offered her mind to my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch's broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean saucepan. This had become thoroughly her attitude by the time that, in my recital of the events of the night, I reached the point of what Miles had said to me when, after seeing him, at such a monstrous hour, almost on the very spot where he happened now to be, I had gone down to bring him in; choosing then, at the window, with a concentrated need of not alarming the house, rather that method than a signal more resonant. I had left her meanwhile in little doubt of my small hope of representing with success even to her actual sympathy my sense of the real splendor of the little inspiration with which, after I had got him into the house, the boy met my final articulate challenge. As soon as I appeared in the moonlight on the terrace, he had come to me as straight as possible; on which I had taken his hand without a word and led him, through the dark spaces, up the staircase where Quint had so hungrily hovered for him, along the lobby where I had listened and trembled, and so to his forsaken room.

Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and I had wondered—oh, HOW I had wondered!—if he were groping about in his little mind for something plausible and not too grotesque. It would tax his invention, certainly, and I felt, this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious thrill of triumph. It was a sharp trap for the inscrutable! He couldn't play any longer at innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it? There beat in me indeed, with the passionate throb of this question an equal dumb appeal as to how the deuce I should. I was confronted at last, as never yet, with all the risk attached even now to sounding my own horrid note. I remember in fact that as we pushed into his little chamber, where the bed had not been slept in at all and the window, uncovered to the moonlight, made the place so clear that there was no need of striking a match—I remember how I suddenly dropped, sank upon the edge of the bed from the force of the idea that he must know how he really, as they say, "had" me. He could do what he liked, with all his cleverness to help him, so long as I should continue to defer to the old tradition of the criminality of those caretakers of the young who minister to superstitions and fears. He "had" me indeed, and in a cleft stick; for who would ever absolve me, who would consent that I should go unhung, if, by the faintest tremor of an overture, I were the first to introduce into our perfect intercourse an element so dire? No, no: it was useless to attempt to convey to Mrs. Grose, just as it is scarcely less so to attempt to suggest here, how, in our short, stiff brush in the dark, he fairly shook me with admiration. I was of course thoroughly kind and merciful; never, never yet had I placed on his little shoulders hands of such tenderness as those with which, while I rested against the bed, I held him there well under fire. I had no alternative but, in form at least, to put it to him.

"You must tell me now—and all the truth. What did you go out for? What were you doing there?"

I can still see his wonderful smile, the whites of his beautiful eyes, and the uncovering of his little teeth shine to me in the dusk. "If I tell you why, will you understand?" My heart, at this, leaped into my mouth. WOULD he tell me why? I found no sound on my lips to press it, and I was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. He was gentleness itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood there more than ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed that gave me a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to tell me? "Well," he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should do this."

"Do what?"

"Think me—for a change—BAD!" I shall never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything. I met his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I presently glanced about the room, I could say—

"Then you didn't undress at all?"

He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all. I sat up and read."

"And when did you go down?"

"At midnight. When I'm bad I AM bad!"

"I see, I see—it's charming. But how could you be sure I would know it?"

"Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers rang out with a readiness! "She was to get up and look out."

"Which is what she did do." It was I who fell into the trap!

"So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked—you saw."

"While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!"

He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. "How otherwise should I have been bad enough?" he asked. Then, after another embrace, the incident and our interview closed on my recognition of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw upon.

The turn of the screw

Henry James

publicado por primeira vez por McMillan en Londres 1898.

traducida ó galego por M.A Laxe Freire

publicado como

 

Outra volta á torniqueta

Valboa, Edicións do Cumio S.A., 1989

XI

Non falei coa señora Grose ata as últimas horas do día seguinte, pois o rigor co que mantiña ós meus pupilos baixo cella facía difícil reunirme con ela en privado, e o que aínda era máis, que ámbalas dúas sentiámo-la necesidade de non provocar, nin nos criados nin nos nenos, ningunha sospeita nin sinal no tocante a discusión duns misterios secretos; pero simplemente a suavidade de formas na señora Grose produciume unha grande seguridade. Non había nada na súa cara de saúde que puidese contaxiar os demais nada das miñas horrorosas confidencias.

Ela cría en min, diso estaba completamente segura; se non fose certo, pois non sei o que houbese sido de min; eu soa non podería aturar todo aquilo. Era un magnífico monumento a bendita falta de imaxinación e se ela non puidese ver nos nosos pupilos outra cousa máis cá súa beleza e amabilidade, a súa intelixencia e felicidade, non sería capaz de chegar directamente as fontes do meu problema.

Se os nenos desen mostras de ter sido maltratados ou de estar deprimidos ben seguro que a señora Grose o averiguaría, e a cousa non quedaría así. Pero tal como estaban as cousas eu puiden advertir –mentres ela os vixiaba cos brazos cruzados e coa súa habitual serenidade no ollar- que daba gracias a Deus; porque aínda que estivesen desfeitos, as pezas que o formaban tiñan utilidade.

A chama da fantasía transformábase na súa mente nun apreciable brillo do lume dun fogar; eu xa empezara a comprender, a medida que pasaba o tempo e sen novos incidentes, como se ía convencendo de que os rapaces xa podían valerse por si, de maneira que puxo o seu maior interese en preocuparse polo caso que presentaba a súa triste e pobre institutriz.

Para min isto non era una simplificación das cousas. Eu podía comprometerme a que a miña cara e a miña expresión non delatasen nada de canto ocorría na casa porque naquelas condicións sería aínda outro inmenso agobio ter que me preocupar por ela.

A hora de que estou falando reunirase comigo na terraza porque llo pedira eu, alí onde coa nova estación o sol era moi agradable.

Sentados alí, mentres que os nenos, sen alonxárense moito para que nos puidesen oír, corrían dun lado para outro, pero sempre dispostos a obedecer.

Movíanse lentamente, paseando de parella polo céspede; o neno lía en voz alta un libro de contos e pasáballe o brazo a súa irmá como para sentila máis preto del. A señora Grose observábaos cun ollar pracenteiro, pero logo advertín unha curiosidade intelectual disimulada cando se volveu intencionadamente cara a min para observa-lo reverso da tapicería.

Eu tiña convertida nun receptáculo de cousas espeluznantes, pero coa súa paciencia e diante do meu sufrimento, amosaba un estraño recoñecemento da miña superioridade, polos meus méritos e polo meu cargo.

Abría a súa mente as miñas revelacións, de xeito que se eu chegase a ofrecerlle en confianza unha pucheirada de mexunxe das meigas, ben seguro que enchería unha cullerada ben grande.

Así é como se atopaba ela na súa actitude. (Refírome a os acontecimentos daquela noite.).

No meu relato xa chegara o punto o que refería o que me dixera Miles cando baixei a buscalo a unha hora insólita e case no mesmo lugar onde se atopaba agora (paseando coa súa irmá). Eu fora abaixo para traelo, preferindo esta forma a non outra, para non facer ruído e evitar alarmas.

A todo isto, eu deille a entender a señora Grose –a pesar da nosa simpatía- que non me ía deixar impresionar pola apariencia de esplendor e fanfarria coa que Miles se defrontou como meu desafío despois de que o trouxen para a casa.

Tan pronto como aparecín na terraza, a luz da lúa, veu directamente o meu encontro. Collino pola man sen decirlle unha palabra e no medio da escuridade subimo-las escaleiras onde Quint andara langreando por velo, despois fomos o longo do corredor onde eu estivera escoitando e tremando , e chegamos o seu cuarto deserto.

Durante o camiño de volta non cruzamos unha palabra, pero eu preguntábame, ¡Oh con que curiosidade!, se no seu pequeno cerebro non estaría chocando algo que fose plausible e non demasiado grotesco. Custaríalle traballo, desde logo, xustifica-la súa conducta; desta vez sentín –a pesar do lío en que se metera- unha estraña arrautada de triunfo.

¡Era unha boa trampa na que caera o inescrutable! Xa non podería volver pasar por inocente; pois logo, ¿cómo demo podería saír daquilo?

Esta pregunta apaixonada facía vibrar no meu corazón outra igualmente muda e apaixonada: ¿Cómo demos podía eu mesma saír do paso?

Por fin teríame que enfrontar con todolos riscos que aquela terrible situación implicaba.

Acórdame que entramos no seu pequeno cuarto, que a cama estaba aínda coma se non se deitase nela. A ventá estaba aberta á luz da lúa que clarexaba o ambiente sen necesidade de acender ningún misto.

Acórdame como de súpeto caín, fundíndome sobre a beira do seu leito intacto, agobiada pola idea de que el debía saber ata que grao me tiña nas súas mans.

Podería facer de min o que quixese, axudado por toda a súa intelixencia; en tanto que eu debería opoñerme a vella tradición de crimes que tiñan aqueles gardiáns da infancia, que dominaban ós nenos por medio da superstición o do medo. Si, tíñame completamente no seu poder, nas súas mans, xa que ¿quen podería absolverme? ¿Quén consentiría que eu saíse sen castigo, se ante a mais lixeira insinuación, eu era a primeira en introducir elementos horribles nas suas perfectas relacións?

Non, non; foi inútil facerllo comprender á señora Grose, do mesmo xeito que resultaba tan difícil explicar de que maneira Miles sacudíu a miña admiración naquel breve encontro da escuridade.

Por suposto que me comportei bondadosa e misericordiosamente; nunca xamais ata daquela puxera eu sobre os seus pequenos ombreiros mans tan tenras coma aquelas que lle puxen mentres me apoiaba na rilleria da cama.

Alí o agardei mentres eu ardía por dentro; pero non tiña outra alternativa ca plantexarlle a cuestión:

- Agora tes que decirme toda a verdade. ¿Para que saiches a fora? É ¿que estabas facendo alí?

- Ainda estou vendo o seu sorriso encantador, o branco dos seus ollo fermosos e os destelos dos seus dentiños que brillaban na penumbra.

- E se llo digo, ¿poderíame entender vostede?

Cando oín isto o meu corazón quixo botarse fóra. ¿Chegaría a dicirme a verdade? Non se me veu a boca ningunha resposta e só me acordo eu lle contestei cun vago e repentino aceno de asentimento. Miles era a mesma xentileza, e mentres facía os acenos coa miña cabeza el estava alí semellando máis ca nunca un pequeno príncipe das fadas. Foi precisamente o seu resplandor o que me deu un pouco de alivio; pero ¿sería tan grande ese resplandor se realmente estivese disposto a confesarse comigo?

- Está ben –dixo por fin-, foi xustamente para que vostede fixese o que fixo.

- ¿Facer que…?

- Para que, pois… por variar, pensase en que eu son malo.

Xamais esquecerei a dozura e ledicia con que pronunciou aquela palabra, nin como para cora-la súa actitude se dobregou para diante e me bicou. Era practicamente a fin de todo. Devolvinlle o bico e mentres o apretaba cos meus brazos tiven que facer un grande esforzo para non berrar.

Acababa de darme unha explicación, de xeito que xa non lle podía pedir máis, e non fixen outra cousa máis que conformarme e resignarme para aceptalo así cando despois de botarlle unha ollada ó cuarto lle preguntei:

- Pero ¿ti non te espiras?

Resplandeceu visiblemente naquelas tebras.

- De ningunha maneira. Senteime e lin.

- ¿E a que hora baixaches ó xardín?

- A media noite. ¡Cando son malo son malo de verdade!

- ¡Xa entendo, xa entendo!, é maravilloso. Pero ¿Cómo podías estar seguro de que eu o sabería?

- ¡Oh! Iso arranxeino con Flora. –As súas respostas caíanlle feitas. –Acordamos que ela tiña que levantarse e vixiar.

- ¡Iso foi o que realmente fixo! ¿Quen caeu na trampa fun eu!

- De xeito que ela foi a que a alterou a vostede, e para ve-lo que ela estaba axexando vostede tamén mirou e viu.

- E mentres ti –repliquei- ¡espoñíaste á morte coa friaxe da noite!

A súa fazaña poñíao tan fachendoso que todo oufano dixo que si.

-¿E de que outra maneira podería ser malo dabondo?

E logo despois doutro abrazo, o incidente e maila nosa entrevista remataron recoñecendo ou tódalas súas reservas de bondade que desta broma eu fora capaz de extraer.