Призраки усадьбы Блай

Henry JAMES

THE HAUNTING  
OF BLY MANOR

CLASSICAL LITERATURE

Комментарии и словарь  

И. С. Гавриш

УДК  372.8 
ББК  81.2 Англ-93 
 
Д40

ISBN 978-5-9925-1595-4

Джеймс, Генри.

Д40        Призраки усадьбы Блай / сборник рассказов : книга 

для чтения на английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : 
КАРО, 2022. — 416 с. : — (Classical literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1595-4.

Поклонникам популярного сериала «Призраки усадьбы 

Блай» наверняка  знакомы герои и сюжеты всех рассказов 
этой книги. «Поворот винта» — мистико-психологическая 
повесть, ставшая культовой для мирового кинематографа 
XX и XXI веков. 

В усадьбе Блай происходят необъяснимые события, зас-

тавляющие читателя сомневаться, что реально, а что нет. 
Пытаясь понять таинственные явления, главная героиня 
ищет разгадку в прошлом — в отношениях между людьми, 
жившими в усадьбе до нее. Неужели призраки пытаются завладеть 
душами живых? 

Любители классического сюжета о доме с привидения-

ми обязательно оценят эту книгу. Неадаптированный текст 
публикуется без сокращений и снабжен примечаниями и 
словарем.

УДК 372.8

ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2022
Все права защищены

Предисловие

Перед вами сборник рассказов классика американской и 

мировой литературы Генри Джеймса (1843–1916). Романы и 
повести Джеймса создали новый для своего времени феномен 
психологического повествования, в котором автор глубоко 
погружает героя в бездну мистического. Несмотря на то, 
что мотив встречи человека со сверхъестественным не был 
нов для мировой культуры в целом, в западной литературе 
ХХ века сюжет взаимодействия человека с таинственными 
явлениями появился впервые благодаря Генри Джеймсу.

Повесть «Поворот винта» удостоилась многочисленных 

экранизаций. Многие сюжетные линии и изобразительные 
приемы, придуманные Джеймсом, периодически появляются 
в разных кинофильмах и сериалах. Жанры хоррор, саспенс, 
психологический триллер произросли из литературных произведений, 
в частности из классического рассказа о доме с 
привидениями. Именно Генри Джеймс когда-то поспособствовал 
расцвету темы паранормального в современной 
массовой культуре.

Всемирно известный сериал «Призраки усадьбы 

Блай» — последняя крупная киноработа, созданная по мотивам 
рассказов Джеймса. Основа его сюжета — повесть 
«Поворот винта» — неизменный источник вдохновения для 
кино о привидениях. Однако в каждом отдельном эпизоде 
сериала присутствует помимо основной и дополнительная 
сюжетная линия. Наш сборник устроен так, что каждый его 
рассказ содержит сюжетную линию, использованную в сериале. 
Поклонники «Призраков усадьбы Блай», читая эту 

книгу, могут насладиться первоисточником, вдохновившим 
создателей сериала.

Не стоит ожидать полного соответствия книги сериалу. 

Произведения Джеймса зачастую строятся на философских 
размышлениях о парадоксах самоощущения человека в мире. 
Исключительный мастер слова, Джеймс сталкивает своих 
героев с необъяснимыми явлениями чаще всего для того, 
чтобы они прозрели и поняли глубокую суть своей собственной 
природы. Призраки в произведениях Джеймса, в отличие 
от большинства фильмов, не всегда враждебны людям и появляются 
не просто так, а с каким-то немым посланием, с 
запросом. Они отражают суть темной стороны человеческого 
естества и заставляют героев понять что-то важное о себе. В 
конечном итоге встреча здешнего с потусторонним, живого 
с «мертвым», Человека с Другим — это не всегда борьба, но 
всегда самопознание.

Любители классического рассказа о доме с привидения-

ми обязательно оценят по достоинству эту книгу. Помимо 
глубокого психологизма, произведения Джеймса характеризует 
сложный, разнообразный, красивый язык. Автор с 
удивительной чуткостью описывает тончайшие детали душевных 
переживаний героев. Изучающим английский язык 
эта книга поможет развить лексические навыки и вкус к хорошей 
литературе. В тексте рассказов, печатающихся без сокращений, 
сохранены авторская орфография и пунктуация.

The Turn of the Screw

The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently 

breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was grue-
some, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale 
should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till 
somebody happened to say that it was the only case he 
had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child. 
The case, I may mention, was that of an apparition in just 
such an old house as had gathered us for the occasion—an 
appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little boy sleeping in 
the room with his mother and waking her up in the terror 
of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him 
to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she 
had succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken 
him. It was this observation that drew from Douglas—not 
immediately, but later in the evening—a reply that had the 
interesting consequence to which I call attention. Someone 
else told a story not particularly effective, which I saw he 
was not following. This I took for a sign that he had him-
self something to produce and that we should only have to 
wait. We waited in fact till two nights later; but that same 
evening, before we scattered, he brought out what was in 
his mind.

“I quite agree—in regard to Griffin’s ghost, or whatever 

it was—that its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender 
an age, adds a particular touch. But it’s not the first occur-
rence of its charming kind that I know to have involved a 
child. If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw, 
what do you say to two children—?”

“We say, of course,” somebody exclaimed, “that they 

give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them.”

I can see Douglas there before the fire, to which he 

had got up to present his back, looking down at his inter-
locutor with his hands in his pockets. “Nobody but me, till 
now, has ever heard. It’s quite too horrible.” This, naturally, 
was declared by several voices to give the thing the utmost 
price, and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph 
by turning his eyes over the rest of us and going on: “It’s 
beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it.”

“For sheer terror?” I remember asking.
He seemed to say it was not so simple as that; to be 

really at a loss how to qualify it. He passed his hand over 
his eyes, made a little wincing grimace. “For dreadful—
dreadfulness!”

“Oh, how delicious!” cried one of the women.
He took no notice of her; he looked at me, but as if, in-

stead of me, he saw what he spoke of. “For general uncanny 
ugliness and horror and pain.”

“Well then,” I said, “just sit right down and begin.”
He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, 

watched it an instant. Then as he faced us again: “I can’t 
begin. I shall have to send to town.” There was a unani-

mous groan at this, and much reproach; after which, in his 
preoccupied way, he explained. “The story’s written. It’s 
in a locked drawer—it has not been out for years. I could 
write to my man and enclose the key; he could send down 
the packet as he finds it.” It was to me in particular that he 
appeared to propound this—appeared almost to appeal 
for aid not to hesitate. He had broken a thickness of ice, 
the formation of many a winter;1 had had his reasons for a 
long silence. The others resented postponement, but it was 
just his scruples that charmed me. I adjured him to write 
by the first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; 
then I asked him if the experience in question had been his 
own. To this his answer was prompt. “Oh, thank God, no!”

“And is the record yours? You took the thing down?”2

“Nothing but the impression. I took that here”—he 

tapped his heart. “I’ve never lost it.”

“Then your manuscript—?”
“Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand.” He 

hung fire again.3 “A woman’s. She has been dead these twenty 
years. She sent me the pages in question before she died.” 
They were all listening now, and of course there was some-
body to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. But if 
he put the inference by without a smile it was also without 

1 He had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many 
a winter. — Он разбил корку льда, нараставшую много зим 
подряд.

2 And is the record yours? You took the thing down? — Но 
ведь рассказ ваш? Вы его написали?

3 He hung fire again. — Он снова помедлил.

irritation. “She was a most charming person, but she was ten 
years older than I. She was my sister’s governess,” he quietly 
said. “She was the most agreeable woman I’ve ever known in 
her position; she would have been worthy of any whatever. 
It was long ago, and this episode was long before. I was at 
Trinity,1 and I found her at home on my coming down the sec-
ond summer. I was much there that year—it was a beautiful 
one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the 
garden—talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and 
nice. Oh yes; don’t grin: I liked her extremely and am glad to 
this day to think she liked me, too. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t 
have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasn’t simply that 
she said so, but that I knew she hadn’t. I was sure; I could see. 
You’ll easily judge why when you hear.”

“Because the thing had been such a scare?”
He continued to fix me. “You’ll easily judge,” he repeat-

ed: “you will.”

I fixed him, too. “I see. She was in love.”
He laughed for the first time. “You are acute. Yes, she 

was in love. That is, she had been. That came out—she 
couldn’t tell her story without its coming out. I saw it, and 
she saw I saw it; but neither of us spoke of it. I remember 
the time and the place—the corner of the lawn, the shade 
of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. 
It wasn’t a scene for a shudder; but oh—!” He quitted the 
fire and dropped back into his chair.

1 Trinity — Trinity College, Тринити-колледж, один из колледжей 
Оксфордского университета.

“You’ll receive the packet Thursday morning?” I in-

quired.

“Probably not till the second post.”
“Well then; after dinner—”
“You’ll all meet me here?” He looked us round again. 

“Isn’t anybody going?” It was almost the tone of hope.

“Everybody will stay!”
“I will”—and “I will!” cried the ladies whose departure 

had been fixed. Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the need 
for a little more light. “Who was it she was in love with?”

“The story will tell,” I took upon myself to reply.
“Oh, I can’t wait for the story!”
“The story won’t tell,” said Douglas; “not in any literal, 

vulgar way.”

“More’s the pity, then. That’s the only way I ever un-

derstand.”

“Won’t you tell, Douglas?” somebody else inquired.
He sprang to his feet again. “Yes—tomorrow. Now 

I must go to bed. Good night.” And quickly catching up a 
candlestick, he left us slightly bewildered. From our end of 
the great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; where-
upon Mrs. Griffin spoke. “Well, if I don’t know who she was 
in love with, I know who he was.”

“She was ten years older,” said her husband.
“Raison de plus1—at that age! But it’s rather nice, his 

long reticence.”

“Forty years!” Griffin put in.
“With this outbreak at last.”

1 raison de plus (фр.) — тем более

“The outbreak,” I returned, “will make a tremendous 

occasion of Thursday night;” and everyone so agreed with 
me that, in the light of it, we lost all attention for every-
thing else. The last story, however incomplete and like the 
mere opening of a serial, had been told; we handshook and 
“candlestuck,”1 as somebody said, and went to bed.

I knew the next day that a letter containing the key had, 

by the first post, gone off to his London apartments; but 
in spite of—or perhaps just on account of—the eventual 
diffusion of this knowledge we quite let him alone till after 
dinner, till such an hour of the evening, in fact, as might best 
accord with the kind of emotion on which our hopes were 
fixed. Then he became as communicative as we could desire 
and indeed gave us his best reason for being so. We had it 
from him again before the fire in the hall, as we had had our 
mild wonders of the previous night. It appeared that the 
narrative he had promised to read us really required for a 
proper intelligence a few words of prologue. Let me say here 
distinctly, to have done with it, that this narrative, from an 
exact transcript of my own made much later, is what I shall 
presently give. Poor Douglas, before his death—when it was 
in sight—committed to me the manuscript that reached him 
on the third of these days and that, on the same spot, with 
immense effect, he began to read to our hushed little circle 
on the night of the fourth. The departing ladies who had said 

1 we handshook and “candlestuck,” <...> and went to bed. — 
мы пожали друг другу руки и, захватив подсвечники, <...> 
пошли спать. — Здесь смешаны смыслы слов сandlestick 
(подсвечник) и to stick (прош. вр. stuck — втыкать, вонзать).