Chapter 13

It was all very well to join them, but speaking to them proved quite as much as ever an effort beyond my strength—offered, in close quarters, difficulties as insurmountable as before. This situation continued a month, and with new aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and sharper, of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my pupils. It was not, I am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere infernal imagination: it was absolutely traceable that they were aware of my predicament and that this strange relation made, in a manner, for a long time, the air in which we moved. I don’t mean that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything vulgar, for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the other hand, that the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other—for, like all bangs, it was something louder than we had intended—the doors we had indiscreetly opened. All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the return of the dead in general and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost. There were days when I could have sworn that one of them had, with a small invisible nudge, said to the other: “She thinks she’ll do it this time—but she won’t!” To “do it” would have been to indulge for instance—and for once in a way—in some direct reference to the lady who had prepared them for my discipline. They had a delightful endless appetite for passages in my own history, to which I had again and again treated them; they were in possession of everything that had ever happened to me, had had, with every circumstance the story of my smallest adventures and of those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as many particulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house, and of the conversation of the old women of our village. There were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward, gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was in any case over my life, my past, and my friends alone that we could take anything like our ease—a state of affairs that led them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into sociable reminders. I was invited—with no visible connection—to repeat afresh Goody Gosling’s celebrated mot or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage pony.

It was easy enough to join them, but speaking to them was as much beyond my strength as ever. When we were close together, the difficulties were just as impossible to overcome as before. This went on for a month, with new complications and distinctive features. Above all, I sensed more and more sharply that my pupils were quietly and ironically aware of the situation. I am as sure today as I was then that it was not merely my own damned imagination. I could clearly see that they knew about my predicament. For a long time, this strange relationship seemed to fill the air around us. I don’t mean that they were secretly mocking me or doing anything vulgar. That was not one of the dangers they posed. But what we left unnamed and untouched became more important between us than anything else. We could not have avoided so much so successfully without a great deal of unspoken agreement. At times, it was as if we kept approaching subjects that forced us to stop short. We turned suddenly out of alleys when we saw they were dead ends. We closed doors we had been careless enough to open, with a little bang that made us look at each other. Like all bangs, it was louder than we had meant it to be. All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when almost every subject of study or conversation seemed to border on forbidden ground. That forbidden ground was the question of the dead returning in general. In particular, it was whatever little children might still remember of the friends they had lost. On some days, I could have sworn that one of them had given the other a small, invisible nudge and said: “She thinks she’ll do it this time, but she won’t!” To “do it” might have meant, for instance, allowing myself, just for once, to speak directly about the lady who had prepared them for my teaching. They had a delightful, endless appetite for stories about my own life, which I had shared with them again and again. They knew everything that had ever happened to me. They had heard every detail of my smallest adventures and those of my brothers and sisters, and of the cat and dog at home. They also knew many details about my father’s eccentric nature, the furniture and layout of our house, and the conversations of the old women in our village. All in all, there was enough to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew instinctively when to take a detour. They had their own artful way of drawing on my invention and memory. When I thought of those occasions afterward, nothing else perhaps made me suspect so strongly that I was being watched from hiding. In any case, it was only when talking about my life, my past, and my friends that we could feel anything like at ease. As a result, they sometimes broke in with friendly reminders that had nothing to do with what we were discussing. With no apparent connection, they would ask me to repeat Goody Gosling’s celebrated remark or confirm the details I had already given them about the cleverness of the vicarage pony.

It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I have called it, grew most sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without another encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing my nerves. Since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, I had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. There was many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance—all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the kind of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which, too, at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the portents—I recognized the moment, the spot. But they remained unaccompanied and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. I had said in my talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene of Flora’s by the lake—and had perplexed her by so saying—that it would from that moment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. I had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that, whether the children really saw or not—since, that is, it was not yet definitely proved—I greatly preferred, as a safeguard, the fullness of my own exposure. I was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. What I had then had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs were most opened. Well, my eyes were sealed, it appeared, at present—a consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank God. There was, alas, a difficulty about that: I would have thanked him with all my soul had I not had in a proportionate measure this conviction of the secret of my pupils.

It was partly at moments like these, and partly at quite different ones, that my predicament became most apparent. My situation had now taken a new turn. The days passed without another encounter, and that should, it seemed, have done something to calm my nerves. On that second night, from the upper landing, I had briefly sensed a woman’s presence at the foot of the stairs. Since then, inside the house or out, I had seen nothing one would rather not see. There were many corners where I expected to come upon Quint. There were also many situations that, in a purely sinister way, would have suited Miss Jessel’s appearance. Summer had turned and passed. Autumn had descended on Bly and put out half our lights. Under its gray sky, with its withered garlands, bare spaces, and scattered dead leaves, the place resembled a theater after a performance. It was strewn with what looked like crumpled playbills. Certain states of the air, certain sounds and silences, brought back a feeling to me, long enough for me to catch it. So did indescribable impressions of the kind of moment that would help bring an apparition. The feeling was of the atmosphere in which I had first seen Quint outdoors that June evening. It was also the atmosphere of those other moments when, after seeing him through the window, I had searched for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the warnings. I recognized the moment and the spot. But the signs remained unaccompanied and the places empty, and I continued undisturbed. If undisturbed is what one could call a young woman whose sensitivity had, in the most extraordinary way, deepened rather than faded. In my talk with Mrs. Grose about Flora’s horrible scene by the lake, I had said something that puzzled her. From that moment on, I said, it would distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. I had expressed what was vividly in my mind. Whether the children really saw or not had not yet been definitely proved. So I much preferred, as a safeguard, to remain fully exposed to the apparitions myself. I was ready to know the very worst there was to know. What I had glimpsed, and found ugly, was that my eyes might be closed just when theirs were most open. Well, my eyes did seem to be closed now. It seemed blasphemous not to thank God for that. But, alas, there was a difficulty. I would have thanked him with all my soul if I had not been equally convinced of my pupils’ secret.

How can I retrace today the strange steps of my obsession? There were times of our being together when I would have been ready to swear that, literally, in my presence, but with my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors who were known and were welcome. Then it was that, had I not been deterred by the very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the injury to be averted, my exultation would have broken out. “They’re here, they’re here, you little wretches,” I would have cried, “and you can’t deny it now!” The little wretches denied it with all the added volume of their sociability and their tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which—like the flash of a fish in a stream—the mockery of their advantage peeped up. The shock, in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than I knew on the night when, looking out to see either Quint or Miss Jessel under the stars, I had beheld the boy over whose rest I watched and who had immediately brought in with him—had straightway, there, turned it on me—the lovely upward look with which, from the battlements above me, the hideous apparition of Quint had played. If it was a question of a scare, my discovery on this occasion had scared me more than any other, and it was in the condition of nerves produced by it that I made my actual inductions. They harassed me so that sometimes, at odd moments, I shut myself up audibly to rehearse—it was at once a fantastic relief and a renewed despair—the manner in which I might come to the point. I approached it from one side and the other while, in my room, I flung myself about, but I always broke down in the monstrous utterance of names. As they died away on my lips, I said to myself that I should indeed help them to represent something infamous, if, by pronouncing them, I should violate as rare a little case of instinctive delicacy as any schoolroom, probably, had ever known. When I said to myself: “They have the manners to be silent, and you, trusted as you are, the baseness to speak!” I felt myself crimson and I covered my face with my hands. After these secret scenes I chattered more than ever, going on volubly enough till one of our prodigious, palpable hushes occurred—I can call them nothing else—the strange, dizzy lift or swim (I try for terms!) into a stillness, a pause of all life, that had nothing to do with the more or less noise that at the moment we might be engaged in making and that I could hear through any deepened exhilaration or quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. Then it was that the others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not angels, they “passed,” as the French say, causing me, while they stayed, to tremble with the fear of their addressing to their younger victims some yet more infernal message or more vivid image than they had thought good enough for myself.

How can I retrace the strange steps of my obsession today? At times, when we were together, I could have sworn they had visitors they knew and welcomed. The visitors were there in my presence, but I could not sense them directly. At such moments, I would have burst out in triumph, if I had not feared doing more harm than I hoped to prevent. “They’re here, they’re here, you little wretches,” I would have cried, “and you can’t deny it now!” The little wretches denied it by being even more friendly and affectionate. Yet in the crystal depths of their affection, like a fish flashing in a stream, I glimpsed their mockery at having the advantage over me. The shock had sunk deeper into me than I knew. That night, I had looked out under the stars, expecting to see either Quint or Miss Jessel. Instead, I saw the boy whose sleep I watched over. As soon as he came in, he turned a lovely upward look on me. It was the same look the hideous apparition of Quint had given me from the battlements above. If the point was to frighten me, this discovery frightened me more than any other. My nerves were still shaken when I drew my conclusions. My conclusions tormented me. Sometimes, at odd moments, I shut myself away and rehearsed aloud how I might raise the subject. This gave me a strange sense of relief, but also renewed my despair. In my room, I flung myself about, trying one approach and then another. But I always broke down when I had to speak those monstrous names. As the names died on my lips, I told myself that speaking them would help make them stand for something shameful. I would be violating an example of natural delicacy as rare as any schoolroom had probably ever known. When I told myself, “They have the manners to be silent, and you, trusted as you are, are base enough to speak!” I felt my face turn red and covered it with my hands. After these private scenes, I chattered more than ever. I talked on and on until one of our enormous, unmistakable silences occurred. I can call them nothing else. It was a strange, dizzying rise or drift (I struggle to find the words!) into stillness, a pause in all life. It had nothing to do with how much noise we happened to be making. I could hear it even through greater excitement, faster recitation, or louder playing on the piano. At those moments, the others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not angels, they “passed,” as the French say. While they stayed, I trembled with fear that they might give their younger victims some even more devilish message or vivid image than they had thought good enough for me.

What it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that, whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw more—things terrible and unguessable and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the past. Such things naturally left on the surface, for the time, a chill which we vociferously denied that we felt; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into such splendid training that we went, each time, almost automatically, to mark the close of the incident, through the very same movements. It was striking of the children, at all events, to kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild irrelevance and never to fail—one or the other—of the precious question that had helped us through many a peril. “When do you think he will come? Don’t you think we ought to write?”—there was nothing like that inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness. “He” of course was their uncle in Harley Street; and we lived in much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to mingle in our circle. It was impossible to have given less encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived each other of some of our finest exhibitions. He never wrote to them—that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the flattery of his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to him when I let my charges understand that their own letters were but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the supposition that he might at any moment be among us. It was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for me. There appears to me, moreover, as I look back, no note in all this more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in truth have been, I now reflect, that I didn’t in these days hate them! Would exasperation, however, if relief had longer been postponed, finally have betrayed me? It little matters, for relief arrived. I call it relief, though it was only the relief that a snap brings to a strain or the burst of a thunderstorm to a day of suffocation. It was at least change, and it came with a rush.

The cruel thought I could least dismiss was that, whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw more. They saw terrible, unimaginable things arising from dreadful encounters in the past. Naturally, such things left a chill on the surface for a time, though we loudly denied feeling it. The three of us had repeated the same routine so often that we had become remarkably practiced at it. Each time, we went through the same motions, almost automatically, to mark the end of the incident. The children, at any rate, would kiss me again and again with a kind of wild irrelevance. One or the other would always ask the precious question that had helped us through many a dangerous moment. “When do you think he will come? Don’t you think we ought to write?” We had learned from experience that nothing smoothed over an awkward moment like that question. “He” was, of course, their uncle in Harley Street. We entertained endless theories that he might arrive at any moment and join our little circle. He could hardly have given us less reason to believe he would. But without that belief to fall back on, we would have missed some of one another’s finest performances. He never wrote to them. That may have been selfish, but it was part of the flattering trust he placed in me. A man’s highest tribute to a woman often amounts to little more than a grander celebration of his own comfort. I had promised not to appeal to him, and I believed I was keeping the spirit of that promise. I did so by letting the children understand that their own letters were merely charming writing exercises. They were too beautiful to post. I kept them myself, and I have them all to this day. This rule only made it more ironic when the children kept raising the possibility that their uncle might join us at any moment. It was just as if they knew his arrival might be almost more awkward for me than anything else. Looking back, I find nothing more extraordinary in all this than the fact that I never lost patience with them. This was despite my tension and their triumph. They must truly have been adorable, I now think, since I did not hate them during those days! But if relief had been delayed longer, would my frustration finally have betrayed me? It hardly matters, because relief arrived. I call it relief, though it was only the relief of something snapping under strain. It was like a thunderstorm bursting after a suffocating day. At least it was a change, and it came in a rush.