Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
Ebook154 pages2 hours

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Henry James was born in the United States, in New York City, on April 15, 1843 and is considered an American writer, though he spent most of his life in England and, a year before his death in London on February 28, 1916, became a British citizen. He is regarded as one of the key literary figures of the 19th century.

James is known especially for the novels in which he portrays Americans encountering Europeans. His style of writing, often verbose and indirect, can make him difficult to read. Often, too, he writes from the point of view of the characters within a tale, exploring issues related to consciousness and perception.

His imaginative use of point of view, interior monologue, and narrators who were not necessarily reliable, brought depth and interest to his fiction. The Aspern Papers is one of his most notable short novels, along with The Turn of the Screw. In addition to fiction he published articles,books of travel, autobiography, biography, criticism, and plays. Among his masterpieces are Daisy Miller (1879), The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Bostonians (1886), What Maisie Knew (1897), The Wings of the Dove (1902), and The Golden Bowl (1916), several of which are available in this series, Classics Condense by Cowley.

LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateDec 9, 2015
ISBN9781491783740
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
Author

Henry James

Henry James (1843–1916) was an American writer, highly regarded as one of the key proponents of literary realism, as well as for his contributions to literary criticism. His writing centres on the clash and overlap between Europe and America, and The Portrait of a Lady is regarded as his most notable work.

Read more from Henry James

Related to The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

Related ebooks

Classics For You

View More

Related articles

Related categories

Reviews for The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Turn of the Screw by Henry James - Henry James

    THE TURN OF

    THE SCREW

    by Henry James

    1.jpg

    Adapted by

    JOSEPH COWLEY

    38277.png

    THE TURN OF THE SCREW BY HENRY JAMES

    Copyright © 2015 Joseph Cowley.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    This book meets the requirements for ESL students reading at level 4 of the ladder word series.

    iUniverse

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.iuniverse.com

    1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    ISBN: 978-1-4917-8375-7 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4917-8374-0 (e)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919246

    iUniverse rev. date: 12/08/2015

    Contents

    Opening

    I

    II

    III

    IV

    V

    VI

    VII

    VIII

    IX

    X

    XI

    XII

    XIII

    XIV

    XV

    XVI

    XVII

    XVIII

    XIX

    XX

    XXI

    XXII

    XXIII

    XXIV

    For Bernice

    Opening

    The story held us breathless, except for the remark that it was as gruesome as a strange tale should be. I remember no other comment till somebody said it was the only case he knew in which such a visitation had fallen on a child.

    The case was that of an apparition in just such an old house as this in which we had gathered—a sight dreadful to a small boy sleeping in the room with his mother, waking her in terror that she might see the sight.

    I can see Douglas standing there before the fire, his hands in his pockets, staring down at us.

    Nobody but me, till now, has ever heard it. It’s quite too horrible.

    This, naturally, gave the tale the utmost price, and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph by saying, It’s beyond everything. Nothing I know touches it.

    For sheer terror? I remember asking.

    He said it was not as simple as that, and that he was at a loss what to call it—for 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, and then, as he faced us again, said, I can’t begin. I shall have to send to town.

    There was a 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 been there for years. I could write to my man and he could send it down.

    It was to me he appeared to propose this. The others resented his putting it off, but it was just his sense of right and wrong that charmed me. I suggested he write by the first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; then I asked him if the experience had been his own.

    Thank God, no! he declared.

    Then your story—?

    Is in old, faded ink, in the most beautiful hand. He hung fire again. A woman’s. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages before she died.

    They were all listening now, and of course there was somebody to draw the meaning of this.

    She was a charming person, but she was ten years older than I. She was my sister’s governess, he said. "She was the most agreeable woman I’ve ever known in her position. It was long ago, and this episode was long before then. I was at Trinity, and I found her at home on my coming down the second summer.

    I was much there that year—it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks in the garden—talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don’t grin: I liked her very much and am glad to this day to think she liked me, too. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have told me the story. She never told anyone. It wasn’t simply that she said so, but that I was sure she hadn’t. You’ll easily judge why when you hear.

    Because the thing had been such a scare?

    He continued to fix me.

    You’ll easily judge, he repeated: YOU will.

    I fixed him, too.

    I see. She was in love.

    He laughed for the first time.

    You ARE sharp. Yes, she was in love. That is, she had been. That came out—she couldn’t 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—the corner of the lawn, the shade of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. It wasn’t a scene for a shudder; but oh—!

    He quitted the fire and dropped back into his chair.

    You’ll receive the package Thursday morning? I asked.

    Probably not till the second post.

    Well then; after dinner—

    You’ll all meet me here?

    He looked us round again.

    Mrs. Griffin expressed the need for a little more light.

    Who was it she was in love with?

    The story will tell, I took upon myself to reply.

    Oh, I can’t wait for the story!

    The story WON’T tell, said Douglas; not in any ordinary way.

    More’s the pity then. That’s the only way I ever understand.

    Won’t YOU tell, Douglas? somebody else asked.

    He sprang to his feet again.

    Yes—tomorrow. Now I must go to bed. Good night.

    Quickly catching up a candle, he left us slightly at a loss. From our end of the great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; whereupon Mrs. Griffin spoke.

    Well, if I don’t know who she was in love with, I know who HE was.

    She was ten years older, said her husband.

    "Raison de plus—at that age! But it’s rather nice, his not telling."

    Forty years! Griffin put in.

    With this story he’ll tell all at last.

    This telling all, I returned, will make a great occasion of Thursday night; and everyone so agreed.

    I knew the next day that a letter had gone off to his London apartments. The manuscript reached him on the third day after that, and he began to read to our hushed little circle on the night of the fourth.

    The written statement took up the tale at a point after it had, in a manner, begun. The fact to be in possession of was that his old friend, the youngest of several daughters of a country parson, had, at the age of twenty, come up to London, a bit anxiously, to answer an advertisement for a governess and private teacher for two small children.

    This person who placed the advertisement proved, on her presenting herself at a house in Harley, a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of life, such a figure as had never been seen, save in a dream or an old novel, by a fluttered, anxious girl out of a Hampshire vicarage.

    One could easily fix his type; it never, happily, dies out. He was handsome, bold, and pleasant, off-hand, gay, and kind. He struck her as gallant and splendid, but what took her most and gave her courage was that he put the whole thing to her as a kind of favor, an obligation he would be grateful if she took on.

    She saw him as rich, but fearfully extravagant—saw him all in a glow of high fashion, of good looks, of expensive habits, of charming ways with women. He had for his town residence, a big house filled with the spoils of travel and the trophies of the chase; but it was to his country home, an old family place in Essex, that he wished her to proceed.

    He had been left, by the death of their parents in India, guardian to a small nephew and niece, children of a younger, military brother, whom he had lost two years before. These children were, for a man in his position—a man without the right sort of experience or patience—very heavily on his hands.

    It had all been a great worry and, on his own part doubtless, but he pitied the poor chicks and had done all he could; had in particular sent them down to his other house, the proper place for them being of course the country, and kept them there, from the first, with the best people he could find to look after them.

    The awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations and that his own affairs took up all his time. He had put them in possession of Bly, which was healthy and secure, and had placed at the head of their little establishment—but below stairs only—an excellent woman, Mrs. Grose, whom he was sure his visitor would like, and who had formerly been maid to his mother.

    She was now house-keeper and was also for the time taking care of the little girl, of whom, without children of her own, she was, by good luck, extremely fond. There were plenty of people to help, but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would have full authority. She would also have, in holidays, to look after the small boy, who had been for a term at school—young as he was, but what else could be done?—and who, as the holidays were about to begin, would return any day.

    There had been for the two children at first a young lady whom they had had the bad luck to lose. She had done for them quite beautifully—she was a most respectable person—till her death, the difficulties of which had left no alternative but school for little Miles.

    Mrs. Grose, since then, in the way of manners and things, had done as she could for Flora; and there were, also, a cook, a house-maid, a dairy-woman, and an old gardener, all likewise respectable.

    So far had Douglas presented his picture when someone asked, And what did the former governess die of?—of too much respectability?

    Our friend’s answer was prompt.

    That will come out. I don’t anticipate.

    In her successor’s place, I suggested, I should have wished to learn if the office brought with it—

    Any danger to life? Douglas completed my thought. "She did wish to learn, and she did learn. You shall hear in due cause what she learned. Meanwhile, of course, the prospect struck her as slightly grim. She was young, untried, and nervous: it was a vision of serious duties and little company, of great loneliness.

    She hesitated—took a couple of days to consult and consider. But the salary offered much exceeded her modest measure, and on a second interview she faced the music, she engaged for the position.

    Douglas, with this, paused, which moved me to throw in, "The moral of which is, of course, that she was led astray by the young man. She surrendered to

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1