Chels

When I studied Henry James, we focused on his stories of writers and artists. I vaguely knew of his ghost stories, but as someone who loves horror in theory but not in practise, I’d never read any of them. I love James’ work. My all time favourite of his is In The Cage, which is incredibly difficult to find as a physical copy. I think part of why I enjoyed it so much is I read the story as a dusty, battered, decades old hardback from the university library. It felt so right to read it that way, and so fitting to the story. I knew I enjoyed his writing style (though I know so many people who find it tedious), so when I found a copy of The Turn of the Screw on sale, I couldn’t resist picking it up.

The novella is short (around 40,000 words), but even with so few words, a full picture is painted. The story begins with a framing narrative – this tale, whether real or imagined (though it is strongly implied to be a real account), is designed to be a ghost story told around the fire; to entertain and frighten. Once the main story begins, we never see the characters of the framing narrative again. We don’t see their reactions, the narrative isn’t interrupted with reminders that this is a tale being told, we are just immersed in the tale. I like this method – a lot of classic ghost stories reintroduce their framing narratives, and it can feel a little disjointed – it interrupts the tension to remind the audience that the narrator has lived to tell the tale – there’s no uncertainty to their ending. While we know from the beginning that The Turn of the Screw is a written account, the fact that we don’t return to the framing narrative means that it’s easy to forget this, and the story is given the freedom to grow, and to develop tension.

If you’re unaware of the story, my short, and mostly spoiler-free summary is that a governess begins working for a family with two children, Miles, the older, and Flora, his younger sister. The children are under the charge of their uncle, who wants very little to do with them, and Mrs Grose, the housekeeper, who does care about them. The unnamed governess begins to see ghosts around the grounds, and we are led to believe these are the ghosts of Peter Quint, the old valet, and Miss Jessel, a previous governess. The story, though, ends right at the climax. The very last sentence is one of action, and it’s a significant action. As a result, though, there’s no closure to the ghost story – there’s no resolution, no consequences, no explanation.

From here on, I’ll be alluding to the ending, so we’re no longer spoiler-free.

Because we get no story post-climax, it means there’s no solid explanation for the rest of the novella. There are various themes present throughout, of course, but the ending means that none are confirmed – the ending and the meaning of the story is up for interpretation. I think it’s very taboo in current reading culture to admit you didn’t understand a book – but it’s true. When I read the final page, I was incredibly confused. I didn’t feel cheated of a resolution, but I felt a sense of frustration; as if I’d missed something obvious. Luckily, though, there are plenty of people online who know a lot more about ghost stories than I do, and the ambiguous ending means there are so many interpretations of the novella. I would rather reread the story at least once before coming to my own conclusion, but some of the ideas brought up fascinated me. When reading, I never noticed the undertones of sexual abuse within the story – the closeness between the governess and Miles, the similar closeness between Miles and Peter Quint, and phrases with darker meanings. Peter Quint is described as ‘too free’ with everyone, which is understood to mean sexually. The children are included in this, and along with the governesses belief that he attempted to ‘corrupt’ Miles, this reading makes a lot of sense. Miles, too, speaks strangely to the governess, referring to her as ‘my dear’, suggesting his understanding of how adults and children behave to one another is not normal. Of course, the governess never actually corrects this. Since the narrative is told from her point of view, she is able to dictate her own presentation. After all, it’s unlikely that a governess would expose her own abuse of children. There’s also the matter of Miles’ death – was it deliberate, by the governess, or was it truly an accident. There are hints throughout the novella to suggest that she smothers the boy, largely the smothering way she protects the children. If she did smother Miles, then why?

The governess feared that the ghosts were trying to ‘corrupt’ the children – this was stated as if it were a fact, but on reflection, she didn’t actually speak to the ghosts. Perhaps they were a figment of her imagination, or a manifestation of her own dark thoughts. The governess was the only character that certainly saw the ghosts, so perhaps they merely represent her growing madness. A fear of inadequacy over those that came before; figures still loved by her new charges. There’s also the fact that her descriptions of the ghosts do not necessarily match the deceased. The first in depth physical description of Peter Quint comes from Mrs Grose, and before then, it was unclear to the reader what the apparition looked like. It’s possible that the governess internalised this description, and from then on, the figure she saw became Peter Quint. The same can be said for her depiction of Miss Jessel – all that we learn is that she dressed in black (which was standard for governesses at the time, and was the colour of mourning, given she died after Peter Quint), and she looked miserable. The governess herself gives no specific characteristics that would indicate that the ghosts are who she believes they are.

In the end, though, as much as I enjoy considering all of the interpretations, I actually think the ambiguity is the most important part of the novella. I think a conclusive ending gives a sense of comfort and reassurance that just can’t strike the same fear as the unknown. The real horror comes from the idea that any of these interpretations could be true. Perhaps the house had been haunted, perhaps the governess alone had been haunted, or perhaps she had been driven mad. What is more horrible? The thought of a governess smothering her charge to death, or that evil forces had killed the boy, and she had no way of proving the truth? 

All of the potential truths are horrible in themselves, but for me, it’s the unknown, and the uncertainty, that really amplifies the horror of a ghost story.