The Two Magics: The Turn of the Screw, Covering End

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  THE TWO MAGICS

  THE TURN OF THE SCREW

  COVERING END

  BY
  HENRY JAMES

  AUTHOR OF “DAISY MILLER,” “THE EUROPEANS”
  ETC., ETC.

  New York
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
  1898

  All rights reserved


  Copyright, 1898,
  By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

  Norwood Press
  J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
  Norwood Mass. U.S.A.




THE TURN OF THE SCREW


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--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 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.

“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 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----?”

“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 interlocutor 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, instead 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 unanimous 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; 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?”

“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. “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 somebody to be arch, or at any
rate to draw the inference.