James, Henry: âThe Turn of the Screwâ
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Prologue
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, 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 â 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 â not immediately, but later in the evening â 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 himself 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.
âI quite agree â in regard to Griffinâs ghost, or whatever it was â that its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. But itâs not the first occurrence 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 â?â
âWe say, of course,â somebody exclaimed, âthat they give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them.â
I can see Douglas there before the fire, to which he had got up to present his back, looking down at his interlocutor with his hands in his pockets. âNobody but me, till now, has ever heard. Itâs quite too horrible.â 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: âItâs beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it.â
âFor sheer terror?â 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. âFor dreadful â dreadfulness!â
âOh, how delicious!â cried one of the women.
He took no notice of her; he looked at me, but as if, instead of me, he saw what he spoke of. âFor general uncanny ugliness and horror and pain.â
âWell then,â I said, âjust sit right down and begin.â
He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, watched it an instant. Then as he faced us again: âI canât begin. I shall have to send to town.â There was a unanimous groan at this, and much reproach; after which, in his preoccupied way, he explained. âThe storyâs written. Itâs in a locked drawer â 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.â It was to me in particular that he appeared to propound this â appeared almost to appeal for aid not to hesitate. He had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; 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. âOh, thank God, no!â
âAnd is the record yours? You took the thing down?â
âNothing but the impression. I took that HEREâ â he tapped his heart. âIâve never lost it.â
âThen your manuscript â?â
âIs in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand.â He hung fire again. âA womanâs. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages in question before she died.â They were all listening now, and of course there was somebody 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 irritation. âShe was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than I. She was my sisterâs governess,â he quietly said. âShe was the most agreeable woman Iâve 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, and I found her at home on my coming down the second summer. I was much there that year â it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden â talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; donât grin: I liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me, too. If she hadnât she wouldnât have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasnât simply that she said so, but that I knew she hadnât. I was sure; I could see. Youâll easily judge why when you hear.â
âBecause the thing had been such a scare?â
He continued to fix me. âYouâll easily judge,â he repeated: âYOU will.â
I fixed him, too. âI see. She was in love.â
He laughed for the first time. âYou ARE acute. Yes, she was in love. That is, she had been. That came out â she couldnât 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 â the corner of the lawn, the shade of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. It wasnât a scene for a shudder; but oh â!â He quitted the fire and dropped back into his chair.
âYouâll receive the packet Thursday morning?â I inquired.
âProbably not till the second post.â
âWell then; after dinner ââ
âYouâll all meet me here?â He looked us round again. âIsnât anybody going?â It was almost the tone of hope.
âEverybody will stay!â
âI willâ â and âI will!â cried the ladies whose departure had been fixed. Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the need for a little more light. âWho was it she was in love with?â
âThe story will tell,â I took upon myself to reply.
âOh, I canât wait for the story!â
âThe story WONâT tell,â said Douglas; ânot in any literal, vulgar way.â
âMoreâs the pity, then. Thatâs the only way I ever understand.â
âWonât YOU tell, Douglas?â somebody else inquired.
He sprang to his feet again. âYes â tomorrow. Now I must go to bed. Good night.â 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; whereupon Mrs. Griffin spoke. âWell, if I donât know who she was in love with, I know who HE was.â
âShe was ten years older,â said her husband.
âRaison de plus â at that age! But itâs rather nice, his long reticence.â
âForty years!â Griffin put in.
âWith this o...