Chapter 24

9 min

My sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention—a stroke that at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting hold of him, drawing him close, and, while I just fell for support against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his back to the window. The appearance was full upon us that I had already had to deal with here: Peter Quint had come into view like a sentinel before a prison. The next thing I saw was that, from outside, he had reached the window, and then I knew that, close to the glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the room his white face of damnation. It represents but grossly what took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made; yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time recovered her grasp of the act. It came to me in the very horror of the immediate presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware. The inspiration—I can call it by no other name—was that I felt how voluntarily, how transcendently, I might. It was like fighting with a demon for a human soul, and when I had fairly so appraised it I saw how the human soul—held out, in the tremor of my hands, at arm’s length—had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead. The face that was close to mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much further away, that I drank like a waft of fragrance.

For a moment, I could not tell how he took this, because my attention was fiercely divided. I sprang to my feet and could do nothing but blindly seize him and draw him close. I fell against the nearest piece of furniture for support, instinctively keeping his back to the window. The figure I had already encountered here was fully in view: Peter Quint had appeared like a guard outside a prison. I saw that he had come up to the window from outside. Close to the glass, he glared in, once more showing the room his white, damned face. To say that I made my decision at once hardly conveys what I felt at the sight. Yet I believe no woman so overwhelmed ever regained control of her actions so quickly. Even in the horror of his immediate presence, I realized what I had to do. I had to keep the boy unaware, while I myself saw and faced what was there. The inspiration, I can call it nothing else, was my sense that I could do this through my own will, to a degree beyond all expectation. It was like fighting a demon for a human soul. Once I understood the struggle in those terms, I saw the human soul I held at arm’s length in my trembling hands. His lovely childish forehead was covered with a fine sweat. The face close to mine was as white as the face against the glass. Then a sound came from it, not low or weak, but as if from much farther away. I drank it in like a breath of fragrance.

“Yes—I took it.”

“Yes, I took it.”

At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew him close; and while I held him to my breast, where I could feel in the sudden fever of his little body the tremendous pulse of his little heart, I kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it move and shift its posture. I have likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled beast. My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame. Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. It was the very confidence that I might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude, by this time, of the child’s unconsciousness, that made me go on. “What did you take it for?”

At this, I moaned with joy and wrapped my arms around him, drawing him close. As I held him against my breast, I could feel his little body suddenly grow feverish. His little heart was pounding. I kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it move and change its posture. I had compared it to a sentinel, but for a moment its slow turn was more like a frustrated beast prowling. My courage had now risen so sharply, though, that I had to conceal it, as if shielding a flame, so that I would not show too much. Meanwhile, the face was glaring through the window again. The scoundrel stood there as if watching and waiting. I was now confident that I could defy him, and absolutely certain that the child was unaware of him. These things made me go on. “What did you take it for?”

“To see what you said about me.”

“You opened the letter?”

“I opened it.”

My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles’s own face, in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and—by my personal triumph—the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get all. “And you found nothing!”—I let my elation out.

As I held him away from me a little again, I looked at Miles’s face. His mockery had fallen away, showing me how completely unease had ravaged him. The astonishing thing was that, at last, my success had shut off his senses and stopped his communication. He knew he was in a presence, but he didn’t know what it was. Still less did he know that I was in its presence too, and that I knew what it was. But what did his troubled strain matter when I looked back at the window? The air was clear again, and by my personal triumph, the influence had been extinguished. There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I would surely get all. “And you found nothing!” I let my joy show.

He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. “Nothing.”

He gave a small, deeply sad and thoughtful shake of his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, nothing!” I almost shouted in my joy.

“Nothing, nothing!” I almost shouted with joy.

“Nothing, nothing,” he sadly repeated.

“Nothing, nothing,” he repeated sadly.

I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. “So what have you done with it?”

I kissed his forehead. It was soaking wet. “So what have you done with it?”

“I’ve burned it.”

“Burned it?” It was now or never. “Is that what you did at school?”

Oh, what this brought up! “At school?”

Oh, the thoughts this brought up! “At school?”

“Did you take letters?—or other things?”

“Did you take letters, or other things?”

“Other things?” He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. “Did I steal?”

“Other things?” He seemed to be thinking of something distant, something that reached him only because of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. “Did I steal?”

I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. “Was it for that you mightn’t go back?”

I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. I also wondered which was stranger: asking a gentleman such a question, or seeing him take it so readily. His acceptance showed just how far he had fallen in the world. “Was that why you couldn’t go back?”

The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. “Did you know I mightn’t go back?”

The only thing he felt was a slight, rather gloomy surprise. “Did you know I might not go back?”

“I know everything.”

He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. “Everything?”

At this, he gave me the longest, strangest look. “Everything?”

“Everything. Therefore did you—?” But I couldn’t say it again.

“Everything. So did you?” But I couldn’t say it again.

Miles could, very simply. “No. I didn’t steal.”

Miles could, quite simply. “No. I didn’t steal.”

My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands—but it was for pure tenderness—shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. “What then did you do?”

My face must have shown him that I believed him completely. Yet I shook him with my hands, though only out of tenderness. It was as if I were asking him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. “What did you do then?”

He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. “Well—I said things.”

He looked around at the ceiling with a vague expression of pain. Two or three times, he drew breath as if it were difficult. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea, looking up at some faint green twilight. “Well, I said things.”

“Only that?”

“They thought it was enough!”

“To turn you out for?”

“What did they throw you out for?”

Never, truly, had a person “turned out” shown so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. “Well, I suppose I oughtn’t.”

Truly, no one who had been “turned out” had ever shown so little to explain it as this little person! He seemed to consider my question, but in a detached and almost helpless way. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t.”

“But to whom did you say them?”

“But who did you say them to?”

He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped—he had lost it. “I don’t know!”

He seemed to try to remember, but it slipped away. He had lost it. “I don’t know!”

He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left it there. But I was infatuated—I was blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to have brought him so much nearer was already that of added separation. “Was it to everyone?” I asked.

He almost smiled at me, desolate in his surrender. By then, his surrender was so nearly complete that I should have left it there. But I was carried away, blinded by victory. Even then, though, the very thing that was supposed to bring him closer was already driving us further apart. “Was it to everyone?” I asked.

“No; it was only to—” But he gave a sick little headshake. “I don’t remember their names.”

“No; it was only to...” But he gave a small, sickly shake of his head. “I don’t remember their names.”

“Were they then so many?”

“Were there so many of them, then?”

“No—only a few. Those I liked.”

“No, only a few. The ones I liked.”

Those he liked? I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant confounding and bottomless, for if he were innocent, what then on earth was I? Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, I let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned away from me again; which, as he faced toward the clear window, I suffered, feeling that I had nothing now there to keep him from. “And did they repeat what you said?” I went on after a moment.

Those he liked? I seemed to drift not toward clarity, but into deeper darkness. Within a minute, my very pity brought me a terrible fear: perhaps he was innocent. For a moment, the thought was bewildering and bottomless. For if he were innocent, then what on earth was I? The mere touch of that question paralyzed me for a moment. I loosened my hold on him a little, and he turned away from me again with a deep sigh. I let him turn toward the clear window, feeling there was nothing there I needed to keep him from now. “And did they repeat what you said?” I continued after a moment.

He was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again with the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against his will. Once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable anxiety. “Oh, yes,” he nevertheless replied—“they must have repeated them. To those they liked,” he added.

He was soon some distance from me, still breathing hard. Again, he seemed to be held against his will, though he was no longer angry about it. As before, he looked up at the dim sky. He seemed to have lost whatever had sustained him, with only an unspeakable anxiety left. “Oh, yes,” he replied nonetheless, “they must have repeated them. To those they liked,” he added.

There was, somehow, less of it than I had expected; but I turned it over. “And these things came round—?”

Somehow, there was less of it than I had expected, but I turned it over. “And these things came around...?”

“To the masters? Oh, yes!” he answered very simply. “But I didn’t know they’d tell.”

“To the teachers? Oh, yes!” he answered simply. “But I didn’t know they’d tell.”

“The masters? They didn’t—they’ve never told. That’s why I ask you.”

“The masters? They didn’t. They’ve never told. That’s why I’m asking you.”

He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. “Yes, it was too bad.”

He turned his little, beautiful, feverish face toward me again. “Yes, it was too bad.”

“Too bad?”

“What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home.”

I can’t name the exquisite pathos of the contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard myself throw off with homely force: “Stuff and nonsense!” But the next after that I must have sounded stern enough. “What were these things?”

I can’t describe how heartbreakingly poignant it was to hear such a speaker contradict such a statement. I only know that a moment later, I heard myself say bluntly, “Nonsense!” But a moment after that, I must have sounded stern enough. “What were these things?”

My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert himself again, and that movement made me, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against the glass, as if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous author of our woe—the white face of damnation. I felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. I saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free, I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. “No more, no more, no more!” I shrieked, as I tried to press him against me, to my visitant.

All my sternness was directed at his judge, his executioner. Yet it made him turn away again, and that movement made me spring straight at him in one bound, with an uncontrollable cry. For there again, against the glass, was the hideous cause of our suffering, the white face of damnation. It was as if he had come to ruin his confession and stop him from answering. I felt sick and dizzy as my victory fell away and the whole battle returned. My wild leap only betrayed what I had seen. Even as I leaped, I saw him guess what it meant. I realized that he was still only guessing, and that he could see nothing at the window. So I let my impulse take over, hoping to turn his greatest moment of fear into proof that he was free. “No more, no more, no more!” I shrieked at my visitor as I tried to press the boy against me.

“Is she here?” Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction of my words. Then as his strange “she” staggered me and, with a gasp, I echoed it, “Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!” he with a sudden fury gave me back.

“Is she here?” Miles panted, understanding where I meant despite his tightly closed eyes. His strange use of “she” shocked me, and I gasped as I repeated it. Then he suddenly shouted back in fury, “Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!”

I seized, stupefied, his supposition—some sequel to what we had done to Flora, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that. “It’s not Miss Jessel! But it’s at the window—straight before us. It’s there—the coward horror, there for the last time!”

I was stunned when I understood what he was thinking. He thought it was some consequence of what we had done to Flora. But that only made me want to show him that it was better than that. “It’s not Miss Jessel! But it’s at the window, straight in front of us. It’s there, the cowardly horror, there for the last time!”

At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled dog’s on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. “It’s he?”

At this, his head moved like a confused dog’s as it followed a scent. Then he shook it frantically, as if seeking air and light. He turned on me, pale with rage and bewildered. He glared around the room in vain, completely missing the vast, overwhelming presence. Yet to me, it now filled the room like the taste of poison. “Is it him?”

I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge him. “Whom do you mean by ‘he’?”

I was so determined to get all my proof that I suddenly turned icy and challenged him. “Who do you mean by ‘he’?”

“Peter Quint—you devil!” His face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. “Where?”

“Peter Quint, you devil!” He looked around the room again, his face twisted in a pleading expression. “Where?”

They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. “What does he matter now, my own?—what will he ever matter? I have you,” I launched at the beast, “but he has lost you forever!” Then, for the demonstration of my work, “There, there!” I said to Miles.

I can still hear him finally giving up the name and praising my devotion. “What does he matter now, my darling? What will he ever matter? I have you,” I cried at the beast, “but he has lost you forever!” Then, to show what I had accomplished, I said to Miles, “There, there!”

But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him—it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.

But he had already jerked around, stared, glared again, and seen only the quiet day. At the blow of the loss I was so proud of, he cried out like a creature thrown over an abyss. When I seized him, it was as if I were catching him as he fell. I caught him, yes, and held him. You can imagine how passionately I held him. But after a minute, I began to feel what I was really holding. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, emptied of its occupant, had stopped.

The end