The Turn of the Screw & Other Novels - 4 Books in One Edition. Генри Джеймс
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— of the adorer thrown with the adored. It wouldn’t really have taken much more to make him wonder if he hadn’t before him one of those rare cases of exaltation — food for fiction, food for poetry — in which a man’s fortune with the woman who doesn’t care for him is positively promoted by the woman who does. It was as if Milly had said to herself: “Well, he can at least meet her in my society, if that’s anything to him; so that my line can only be to make my society attractive.” She certainly couldn’t have made a different impression if she had so reasoned. All of which, none the less, didn’t prevent his soon enough saying to her, quite as if she were to be whirled into space: “And now, then, what becomes of you? Do you begin to rush about on visits to country-houses?”
She disowned the idea with a headshake that, put on what face she would, couldn’t help betraying to him something of her suppressed view of the possibility — ever, ever perhaps — of any such proceedings. They weren’t at any rate for her now. “Dear no. We go abroad for a few weeks somewhere of high air. That has been before us for many days; we’ve only been kept on by last necessities here. However, everything’s done and the wind’s in our sails.”
“May you scud then happily before it! But when,” he asked, “do you come back?”
She looked ever so vague; then as if to correct it: “Oh when the wind turns. And what do you do with your summer?”
“Ah I spend it in sordid toil. I drench it with mercenary ink. My work in your country counts for play as well. You see what’s thought of the pleasure your country can give. My holiday’s over.”
“I’m sorry you had to take it,” said Milly, “at such a different time from ours. If you could but have worked while we’ve been working —”
“I might be playing while you play? Oh the distinction isn’t so great with me. There’s a little of each for me, of work and of play, in either. But you and Mrs. Stringham, with Miss Croy and Mrs. Lowder — you all,” he went on, “have been given up, like navvies or niggers, to real physical toil. Your rest is something you’ve earned and you need. My labour’s comparatively light.”
“Very true,” she smiled; “but all the same I like mine.”
“It doesn’t leave you ‘done’?”
“Not a bit. I don’t get tired when I’m interested. Oh I could go far.”
He bethought himself. “Then why don’t you?— since you’ve got here, as I learn, the whole place in your pocket.”
“Well, it’s a kind of economy — I’m saving things up. I’ve enjoyed so what you speak of — though your account of it’s fantastic — that I’m watching over its future, that I can’t help being anxious and careful. I want — in the interest itself of what I’ve had and may still have — not to make stupid mistakes. The way not to make them is to get off again to a distance and see the situation from there. I shall keep it fresh,” she wound up as if herself rather pleased with the ingenuity of her statement —“I shall keep it fresh, by that prudence, for my return.”
“Ah then you will return? Can you promise one that?”
Her face fairly lighted at his asking for a promise; but she made as if bargaining a little. “Isn’t London rather awful in winter?”
He had been going to ask her if she meant for the invalid; but he checked the infelicity of this and took the enquiry as referring to social life. “No — I like it, with one thing and another; it’s less of a mob than later on; and it would have for us the merit — should you come here then — that we should probably see more of you. So do reappear for us — if it isn’t a question of climate.”
She looked at that a little graver. “If what isn’t a question —?”
“Why the determination of your movements. You spoke just now of going somewhere for that.”
“For better air?”— she remembered. “Oh yes, one certainly wants to get out of London in August.”
“Rather, of course!”— he fully understood. “Though I’m glad you’ve hung on long enough for me to catch you. Try us at any rate,” he continued, “once more.”
“Whom do you mean by ‘us’?” she presently asked.
It pulled him up an instant — representing, as he saw it might have seemed, an allusion to himself as conjoined with Kate, whom he was proposing not to mention any more than his hostess did. But the issue was easy. “I mean all of us together, every one you’ll find ready to surround you with sympathy.”
It made her, none the less, in her odd charming way, challenge him afresh. “Why do you say sympathy?”
“Well, it’s doubtless a pale word. What we shall feel for you will be much nearer worship.”
“As near then as you like!” With which at last Kate’s name was sounded. “The people I’d most come back for are the people you know. I’d do it for Mrs. Lowder, who has been beautifully kind to me.”
“So she has to me,” said Densher. “I feel,” he added as she at first answered nothing, “that, quite contrary to anything I originally expected, I’ve made a good friend of her.”
“I didn’t expect it either — its turning out as it has. But I did,” said Milly, “with Kate. I shall come back for her too. I’d do anything”— she kept it up —“for Kate.”
Looking at him as with conscious clearness while she spoke, she might for the moment have effectively laid a trap for whatever remains of the ideal straightness in him were still able to pull themselves together and operate. He was afterwards to say to himself that something had at that moment hung for him by a hair. “Oh I know what one would do for Kate!”— it had hung for him by a hair to break out with that, which he felt he had really been kept from by an element in his consciousness stronger still. The proof of the truth in question was precisely in his silence; resisting the impulse to break out was what he was doing for Kate. This at the time moreover came and went quickly enough; he was trying the next minute but to make Milly’s allusion easy for herself. “Of course I know what friends you are — and of course I understand,” he permitted himself to add, “any amount of devotion to a person so charming. That’s the good turn then she’ll do us all — I mean her working for your return.”
“Oh you don’t know,” said Milly, “how much I’m really on her hands.”
He could but accept the appearance of wondering how much he might show he knew. “Ah she’s very masterful.”
“She’s great. Yet I don’t say she bullies me.”
“No — that’s not the way. At any rate it isn’t hers,” he smiled. He remembered, however, then that an undue acquaintance with Kate’s ways was just what he mustn’t show; and he pursued the subject no further than to remark with a good intention that had the further merit of representing a truth: “I don’t feel as if I knew her — really to call know.”
“Well, if you come to that, I don’t either!” she laughed. The words gave him, as soon as they were uttered, a sense of responsibility for his own; though during a silence that ensued for a minute he had time to recognise that his own contained after all no element of falsity. Strange enough therefore was it that he could go too far — if it was too far — without being false. His observation was one he would perfectly have made to Kate herself. And before he again spoke, and before Milly did, he took time for more still — for feeling how just here it was that he must break short off if his mind was really made up not to go further. It was as if he had been at a corner — and fairly put there by his last speech; so that it depended on him whether or no to turn it. The silence, if prolonged but an instant, might even have given him a sense of her waiting to see what he would do. It was filled for them the next thing by the sound, rather voluminous for the August afternoon, of the approach, in the street