Chapter 9

I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield. Stranger than I can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful. I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that I thought strange things about them; and the circumstances that these things only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark. I trembled lest they should see that they were so immensely more interesting. Putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation I so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only be—blameless and foredoomed as they were—a reason the more for taking risks. There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse, I found myself catching them up and pressing them to my heart. As soon as I had done so I used to say to myself: “What will they think of that? Doesn’t it betray too much?” It would have been easy to get into a sad, wild tangle about how much I might betray; but the real account, I feel, of the hours of peace that I could still enjoy was that the immediate charm of my companions was a beguilement still effective even under the shadow of the possibility that it was studied. For if it occurred to me that I might occasionally excite suspicion by the little outbreaks of my sharper passion for them, so too I remember wondering if I mightn’t see a queerness in the traceable increase of their own demonstrations.

I waited and waited, and as the days passed, my alarm began to fade. In fact, only a few days passed without another incident, while my pupils were always in sight. That was enough to wipe away some of my troubling thoughts and even my hateful memories. I have said that I could actively encourage myself to surrender to their extraordinary childish grace. You can imagine that I now turned to that source for whatever comfort it could give me. The effort to resist what I had newly come to understand was stranger than I can express. But it would no doubt have been an even greater strain if I had not so often succeeded. I used to wonder how the children in my care could fail to guess that I had strange thoughts about them. Those thoughts only made them more interesting, and that alone did not help me keep them in the dark. I trembled at the thought that they might see how much more interesting they had become. At any rate, even if I assumed the worst, as I so often did when I reflected, any shadow over their innocence could only give me more reason to take risks. They were blameless and doomed as they were. At times, I felt an irresistible urge to scoop them up and press them to my heart. As soon as I did, I would ask myself: “What will they think of that? Doesn’t it reveal too much?” I could easily have become caught in a sad, wild tangle of worry about how much I might reveal. But I feel there was a real reason I could still enjoy hours of peace. The immediate charm of my companions could still captivate me, even under the shadow of the possibility that it was calculated. For if I sometimes thought my bursts of deeper affection might make them suspicious, I also remember wondering whether there was something strange in the noticeable increase in their own displays of affection.

They were at this period extravagantly and preternaturally fond of me; which, after all, I could reflect, was no more than a graceful response in children perpetually bowed over and hugged. The homage of which they were so lavish succeeded, in truth, for my nerves, quite as well as if I never appeared to myself, as I may say, literally to catch them at a purpose in it. They had never, I think, wanted to do so many things for their poor protectress; I mean—though they got their lessons better and better, which was naturally what would please her most—in the way of diverting, entertaining, surprising her; reading her passages, telling her stories, acting her charades, pouncing out at her, in disguises, as animals and historical characters, and above all astonishing her by the “pieces” they had secretly got by heart and could interminably recite. I should never get to the bottom—were I to let myself go even now—of the prodigious private commentary, all under still more private correction, with which, in these days, I overscored their full hours. They had shown me from the first a facility for everything, a general faculty which, taking a fresh start, achieved remarkable flights. They got their little tasks as if they loved them, and indulged, from the mere exuberance of the gift, in the most unimposed little miracles of memory. They not only popped out at me as tigers and as Romans, but as Shakespeareans, astronomers, and navigators. This was so singularly the case that it had presumably much to do with the fact as to which, at the present day, I am at a loss for a different explanation: I allude to my unnatural composure on the subject of another school for Miles. What I remember is that I was content not, for the time, to open the question, and that contentment must have sprung from the sense of his perpetually striking show of cleverness. He was too clever for a bad governess, for a parson’s daughter, to spoil; and the strangest if not the brightest thread in the pensive embroidery I just spoke of was the impression I might have got, if I had dared to work it out, that he was under some influence operating in his small intellectual life as a tremendous incitement.

At this time, they were extravagantly, almost unnaturally fond of me. Yet I could reflect that their affection was only a graceful response from children who were constantly hugged and fussed over. Their lavish devotion did as much to soothe my nerves as if I never seemed to catch them acting with a purpose. I think they had never wanted to do so many things for their poor protectress. They learned their lessons better and better, which was naturally what would please her most. But I mean the things they did to amuse, entertain, and surprise her. They read her passages, told her stories, acted out charades for her, and pounced out at her in disguise as animals and historical characters. Above all, they amazed her with the “pieces” they had secretly memorized and could recite endlessly. Even now, if I let myself go, I could never finish describing the immense private commentary with which I filled their busy hours. I kept revising those thoughts, even more privately. From the first, they had shown me a gift for everything. Now their general ability seemed to find fresh energy and reached remarkable heights. They learned their little lessons as if they loved them. And just from the sheer abundance of their talent, they performed little miracles of memory that no one had asked of them. They popped out at me not only as tigers and Romans, but also as Shakespeareans, astronomers, and navigators. Their gifts were so striking that they presumably had much to do with something I can now find no other explanation for. I mean my unnatural composure about finding another school for Miles. What I remember is that, for the time being, I was content not to raise the question. That contentment must have come from his constant, striking displays of cleverness. He was too clever for a bad governess, a parson’s daughter, to spoil. And the strangest, if not the brightest, thread in the fabric of my thoughts was an impression I might have formed if I had dared to pursue it. It was that some influence was acting on his young mind as a tremendous spur.

If it was easy to reflect, however, that such a boy could postpone school, it was at least as marked that for such a boy to have been “kicked out” by a schoolmaster was a mystification without end. Let me add that in their company now—and I was careful almost never to be out of it—I could follow no scent very far. We lived in a cloud of music and love and success and private theatricals. The musical sense in each of the children was of the quickest, but the elder in especial had a marvelous knack of catching and repeating. The schoolroom piano broke into all gruesome fancies; and when that failed there were confabulations in corners, with a sequel of one of them going out in the highest spirits in order to “come in” as something new. I had had brothers myself, and it was no revelation to me that little girls could be slavish idolaters of little boys. What surpassed everything was that there was a little boy in the world who could have for the inferior age, sex, and intelligence so fine a consideration. They were extraordinarily at one, and to say that they never either quarreled or complained is to make the note of praise coarse for their quality of sweetness. Sometimes, indeed, when I dropped into coarseness, I perhaps came across traces of little understandings between them by which one of them should keep me occupied while the other slipped away. There is a naïf side, I suppose, in all diplomacy; but if my pupils practiced upon me, it was surely with the minimum of grossness. It was all in the other quarter that, after a lull, the grossness broke out.

It was easy to think that a boy like him could wait before going to school. But it was at least as striking that his having been “kicked out” by a schoolmaster was an endless mystery. Let me add that, in the children’s company, I could not follow any clue very far. I was careful to be with them almost all the time. We lived in a cloud of music, love, success, and private theatricals. Both children were quick to grasp music, but the older child especially had a remarkable gift for picking up tunes and repeating them. The schoolroom piano interrupted all my gruesome thoughts. When the piano failed, there were whispered conversations in corners. Afterward, one of the children would go out in the highest spirits, only to “come in” as someone new. I had had brothers myself, so it was no surprise to me that little girls could worship little boys slavishly. What surpassed everything was that a little boy could show such fine consideration for someone younger, female, and less intelligent. They were extraordinarily in tune with each other. To say that they never quarreled or complained would be too crude a way to praise their sweetness. Sometimes, though, when I did think in such crude terms, I perhaps found traces of little agreements between them. One would keep me occupied while the other slipped away. There is a naïve side, I suppose, to all diplomacy. But if my pupils were using such tactics on me, they surely did so with a minimum of crudity. It was entirely from the other quarter that, after a lull, the crudity broke out.

I find that I really hang back; but I must take my plunge. In going on with the record of what was hideous at Bly, I not only challenge the most liberal faith—for which I little care; but—and this is another matter—I renew what I myself suffered, I again push my way through it to the end. There came suddenly an hour after which, as I look back, the affair seems to me to have been all pure suffering; but I have at least reached the heart of it, and the straightest road out is doubtless to advance. One evening—with nothing to lead up or to prepare it—I felt the cold touch of the impression that had breathed on me the night of my arrival and which, much lighter then, as I have mentioned, I should probably have made little of in memory had my subsequent sojourn been less agitated. I had not gone to bed; I sat reading by a couple of candles. There was a roomful of old books at Bly—last-century fiction, some of it, which, to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown, but never to so much as that of a stray specimen, had reached the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth. I remember that the book I had in my hand was Fielding’s Amelia; also that I was wholly awake. I recall further both a general conviction that it was horribly late and a particular objection to looking at my watch. I figure, finally, that the white curtain draping, in the fashion of those days, the head of Flora’s little bed, shrouded, as I had assured myself long before, the perfection of childish rest. I recollect in short that, though I was deeply interested in my author, I found myself, at the turn of a page and with his spell all scattered, looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room. There was a moment during which I listened, reminded of the faint sense I had had, the first night, of there being something undefinably astir in the house, and noted the soft breath of the open casement just move the half-drawn blind. Then, with all the marks of a deliberation that must have seemed magnificent had there been anyone to admire it, I laid down my book, rose to my feet, and, taking a candle, went straight out of the room and, from the passage, on which my light made little impression, noiselessly closed and locked the door.

I find that I am hesitating, but I must plunge in. As I continue my account of the horrors at Bly, I challenge even the most willing belief. I care little about that. But I also relive what I suffered, and that is another matter. Once again, I force my way through it to the end. Suddenly, a moment came after which, looking back, the whole affair seems to me to have been pure suffering. But at least I have reached the heart of it, and the straightest way out is surely to go on. One evening, with nothing to lead up to it or prepare me, I felt a cold touch. It was the same feeling that had brushed over me on the night I arrived. It had been much lighter then, as I have mentioned. If my later stay had been less troubled, I would probably have thought little of it afterward. I had not gone to bed. I sat reading by the light of two candles. There was a roomful of old books at Bly, some of them novels from the previous century. Their reputation had reached my secluded home, though only as something people clearly disapproved of. Not even a single copy had found its way there. The novels had appealed to a curiosity I had not admitted to as a young person. I remember that the book in my hand was Fielding’s Amelia. I was fully awake. I also recall being generally convinced that it was terribly late, though I did not want to look at my watch. And I remember the white curtain hanging around the head of Flora’s little bed, as was fashionable then. As I had assured myself long before, it concealed a perfectly peaceful sleeping child. Though I was deeply interested in my author, I found myself looking straight up from the book as I turned a page. His spell was completely broken, and I stared hard at my bedroom door. For a moment I listened. I was reminded of the faint sense I had on my first night that something indefinable was stirring in the house. I noticed that the soft breeze from the open window barely moved the half-drawn blind. Then I acted with great deliberation. If anyone had been there to admire it, it must have seemed magnificent. I laid down my book, stood up, and took a candle. I went straight out of the room and into the passage, where my light made little impression. There, I closed and locked the door without a sound.

I can say now neither what determined nor what guided me, but I went straight along the lobby, holding my candle high, till I came within sight of the tall window that presided over the great turn of the staircase. At this point I precipitately found myself aware of three things. They were practically simultaneous, yet they had flashes of succession. My candle, under a bold flourish, went out, and I perceived, by the uncovered window, that the yielding dusk of earliest morning rendered it unnecessary. Without it, the next instant, I saw that there was someone on the stair. I speak of sequences, but I required no lapse of seconds to stiffen myself for a third encounter with Quint. The apparition had reached the landing halfway up and was therefore on the spot nearest the window, where at sight of me, it stopped short and fixed me exactly as it had fixed me from the tower and from the garden. He knew me as well as I knew him; and so, in the cold, faint twilight, with a glimmer in the high glass and another on the polish of the oak stair below, we faced each other in our common intensity. He was absolutely, on this occasion, a living, detestable, dangerous presence. But that was not the wonder of wonders; I reserve this distinction for quite another circumstance: the circumstance that dread had unmistakably quitted me and that there was nothing in me there that didn’t meet and measure him.

I cannot say now what prompted or guided me. But I went straight down the lobby, holding my candle high, until I could see the tall window overlooking the great turn of the staircase. There, I suddenly became aware of three things. They happened almost at once, yet seemed to come in quick flashes. As I swung my candle boldly, it went out. By the uncovered window, I saw that the fading darkness of early morning made it unnecessary. Without the candle, I saw someone on the stairs the next instant. I describe these events in order, but it took no seconds for me to brace myself for a third encounter with Quint. The apparition had reached the landing halfway up, the spot nearest the window. There, on seeing me, he stopped short and stared at me, just as he had from the tower and the garden. He knew me as well as I knew him. And so we faced each other with equal intensity in the cold, faint twilight. A glimmer shone in the tall window, and another on the polished oak stairs below. This time, he was undeniably a living, hateful, dangerous presence. But that was not the greatest wonder. That was something else entirely: my dread had unmistakably left me, and every part of me stood ready to face and measure him.

I had plenty of anguish after that extraordinary moment, but I had, thank God, no terror. And he knew I had not—I found myself at the end of an instant magnificently aware of this. I felt, in a fierce rigor of confidence, that if I stood my ground a minute I should cease—for the time, at least—to have him to reckon with; and during the minute, accordingly, the thing was as human and hideous as a real interview: hideous just because it was human, as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house, some enemy, some adventurer, some criminal. It was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror, huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural. If I had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour, we still at least would have spoken. Something would have passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed, one of us would have moved. The moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more to make me doubt if even I were in life. I can’t express what followed it save by saying that the silence itself—which was indeed in a manner an attestation of my strength—became the element into which I saw the figure disappear; in which I definitely saw it turn as I might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost.

After that extraordinary moment, I suffered plenty of anguish, but thank God, I felt no terror. And he knew I felt none. Within an instant, I became magnificently aware of that. I felt a fierce, unwavering confidence that if I stood my ground for a minute, he would leave me alone, at least for the time being. And during that minute, the encounter was as human and hideous as a real meeting. It was hideous precisely because it was human. It was as human as meeting an enemy, an adventurer, or a criminal alone in a sleeping house, in the middle of the night. Only the dead silence of our long stare at such close range gave the immense horror anything unnatural. If I had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour, we would at least have spoken. Something would have passed between us as living beings. If nothing had passed between us, one of us would have moved. The moment lasted so long that it would have taken little more to make me doubt whether even I was alive. I can only describe what followed by saying that I saw the figure disappear into the silence itself. And that silence was, in a way, proof of my strength. I clearly saw the figure turn, as I might have seen the vile man it had once belonged to turn after receiving an order. I watched its villainous back, which no hunch could have made uglier, as it went straight down the staircase. It passed into the darkness that hid the next turn.