simple-minded man in a corner, excite our sympathies for him,
magnify his embarrassments, and keep us engrossed all the time....
But we do not consider that herein lies Mr. Jacobs’s special
distinction.... It is in his eye for character, his knowledge of a
certain kind of human nature, his genius for the little touches, as
we prefer to call them, that Mr. Jacobs stands out so notably. No
one now writing can manage the little touches as Mr. Jacobs can, at
once so naturally, so truthfully, so usefully, and so joyously....
None of them actually helps the plot, but every one of them is so
much added to the characters and conditions of the story.--IBID.
We cannot think of any other books with which to compare Mr.
Jacobs’s, because there are none just like them. To-day a number
of the best and brightest English and American writers seem to
be getting their inspiration from the sea.... Each one of these
has his own particular field, and in presenting the humour
of the sailor’s life and environment no one approaches Mr.
Jacobs.--BOOKMAN (New York).
We are acquainted with one pronounced pessimist, who maintains
defiantly and aggressively that he never reads anything in the
nature of modern fiction. “Except, of course,” he adds, “the short
stories of W. W. Jacobs, which certainly make me laugh....” We are
inclined to believe that there are a number of men who are of the
same mind in regard to the work of Mr. Jacobs. Yet we do not think
that his most ardent admirer, after having laid aside one of his
books for three days, would be able to give more than the vaguest
description of the tales contained therein. To this rule there are,
however, several exceptions. “The Monkey’s Paw,” as grewsome a
story as has appeared for years, was one.--IBID.
FURTHER REFERENCES FOR READING ON JACOBS
_Sketch of W. W. Jacobs_, _Current Literature_, vol. 26, 117; His
_Work_, _Academy_, vol. 52, 496; _Living Age_, vol. 218, 366; _Strand_,
vol. 16, 676; _W. W. Jacobs_, _Book News_, vol. 19; _The Little
Touches_ (Review of _A Master of Craft_), _Academy_, vol. 59; _A New
Humorist_, _Spectator_, vol. 78; _More Cargoes_ (Review), _Public
Opinion_, vol. 25; _The Skipper’s Wooing_ (Review), _Saturday Review_,
vol. 84.
FOR ANALYSIS
THE MONKEY’S PAW[19]
BY W. W. JACOBS
I
Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of
Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly.
Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the
game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and
unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired
old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
2. “Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who having seen a fatal mistake
after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from
seeing it.
3. “I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he
stretched out his hand. “Check.”
4. “I should hardly think that he’d come to-night,” said his father,
with his hand poised over the board.
5. “Mate,” replied the son.
6. “That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with
sudden and unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy,
out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog,
and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about.
I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it
doesn’t matter.”
7. “Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win
the next one.”
8. Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing
glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he
hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
9. “There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and
heavy footsteps came toward the door.
10. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was
heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled
with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently
as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady
of eye and rubicund of visage.
11. “Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.
12. The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat
by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and
tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
13. At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk,
the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor
from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and
spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange
peoples.
14. “Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and
son. “When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now
look at him.”
15. “He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.
16. “I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look
round a bit, you know.”
17. “Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head.
He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.
18. “I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,”
said the old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day
about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”
19. “Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways nothing worth
hearing.”
20. “Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.
21. “Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said
the sergeant-major, offhandedly.
22. His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor
absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down
again. His host filled it for him.
23. “To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket,
“it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”
24. He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White
drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
25. “And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took
it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
26. “It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the
sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled
people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their
sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have
three wishes from it.”
27. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that
their light laughter jarred somewhat.
28. “Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.
29. The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to
regard presumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy
face whitened.
30. “And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs.
White.
31. “I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his
strong teeth.
32. “And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.
33. “The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t
know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I
got the paw.”
34. His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
35. “If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then,
Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”
36. The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly.
“I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has
caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think
it’s a fairy tale, some of them; and those who do think anything of it
want to try it first and pay me afterward.”
37. “If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing
him keenly, “would you have them?”
38. “I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”
39. He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb,
suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down
and snatched it off.
40. “Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.
41. “If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”
42. “I won’t,” said his friend doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If
you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire
again like a sensible man.”
43. The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely.
“How do you do it?” he inquired.
44. “Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the
sergeant-major, “but I warn you of the consequences.”
45. “Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and
began to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs
of hands for me?”
46. Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three
burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his
face, caught him by the arm.
47. “If you must wish,” he said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”
48. Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs,
motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the
talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening
in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier’s
adventures in India.
49. “If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those
he has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their
guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, “we shan’t make
much out of it.”
50. “Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White,
regarding her husband closely.
51. “A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I
made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”
52. “Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to
be rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin
with; then you can’t be hen-pecked.”
53. He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed
with an antimacassar.
54. Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I
don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It
seems to me I’ve got all I want.”
55. “If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t
you?” said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two
hundred pounds, then; that’ll just do it.”
56. His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the
talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at
his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
57. “I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.
58. A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a
shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
59. “It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it
lay on the floor.
60. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”
61. “Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up and
placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”
62. “It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding
him anxiously.
63. He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm, but it
gave me a shock all the same.”
64. They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their
pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started
nervously at the sound of a door banging up-stairs. A silence unusual
and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old
couple rose to retire for the night.
65. “I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle
of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, “and something
horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket
your ill-gotten gains.”
66. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing
faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed
at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh,
he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw
over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he
wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.
II
67. In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed
over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air
of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the
previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the
sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its
virtues.
68. “I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The
idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in
these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you,
father?”
69. “Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.
70. “Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father,
“that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”
71. “Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert
as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean,
avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”
72. His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him
down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at
the expense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent
her from scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her
from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous
habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.
73. “Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when
he comes home,” she said, as they sat at dinner.
74. “I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but
for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”
75. “You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.
76. “I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it;
I had just--What’s the matter?”
77. His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements
of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house,
appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental
connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger
was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he
paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood
with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open
and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands
behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put
that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.
78. She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He
gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the
old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s
coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then
waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his
business, but he was at first strangely silent.
79. “I--was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a
piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from Maw and Meggins.”
80. The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked,
breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is
it?”
81. Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily.
“Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news,
I’m sure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.
82. “I’m sorry--” began the visitor.
83. “Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly.
84. The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but
he is not in any pain.”
85. “Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank
God for that! Thank--”
86. She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance
dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in
the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her
slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was
a long silence.
87. “He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a
low voice.
88. “Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion,
“yes.”
89. He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s
hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old
courting-days nearly forty years before.
90. “He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the
visitor. “It is hard.”
91. The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The
firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great
loss,” he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand
I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.”
92. There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes
staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look
such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first
action.
93. “I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,”
continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in
consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with a
certain sum as compensation.”
94. Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed
with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words.
“How much?”
95. “Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.
96. Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put
out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to
the floor.
III
97. In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people
buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and
silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly
realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of
something else to happen--something else which was to lighten this
load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
98. But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation--the
hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes
they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about,
and their days were long to weariness.
99. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the
night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in
darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He
raised himself in bed and listened.
100. “Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”
101. “It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.
102. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and
his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a
sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
103. “The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”
104. He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”
105. She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she
said, quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”
106. “It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied marvelling.
“Why?”
107. She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
108. “I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I
think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”
109. “Think of what?” he questioned.
110. “The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”
111. “Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.
112. “No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and
get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”
113. The man sat up in bed and flung the bed-clothes from his quaking
limbs. “Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.
114. “Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish--Oh, my boy, my
boy!”
115. Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,”
he said, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
116. “We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly;
“why not the second?”
117. “A coincidence,” stammered the old man.
118. “Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with
excitement.
119. The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has
been dead ten days, and besides he--I would not tell you else, but--I
could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for
you to see then, how now?”
120. “Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the
door. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”
121. He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and
then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible
fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him
ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his
breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow
cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the
wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome
thing in his hand.
122. Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was
white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look
upon it. He was afraid of her.
123. “Wish!” she cried in a strong voice.
124. “It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.
125. “Wish!” repeated his wife.
126. He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”
127. The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then
he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes,
walked to the window and raised the blind.
128. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally
at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The
candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candle-stick,
was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceilings and walls, until, with
a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an
unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back
to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently
and apathetically beside him.
129. Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the
clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through
the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time
screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one,
went downstairs for a candle.
130. At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to
strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy
as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.
131. The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He
stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated.
Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door
behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.
132. “What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.
133. “A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones--“a rat. It passed me
on the stairs.”
134. His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through
the house.
135. “It’s Herbert!” she screamed, “It’s Herbert!”
136. She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching
her by the arm, held her tightly.
137. “What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.
138. “It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically.
“I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I
must open the door.”
139. “For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.
140. “You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me
go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”
141. There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden
wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the
landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs.
He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and
stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and
panting.
142. “The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”
143. But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the
floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing
outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the
house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in
the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it
came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and
frantically breathed his third and last wish.
144. The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were
still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door
opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of
disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down
to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering
opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR STUDY
1. Does it add to the interest of a story, for you, when you are
baffled by its mystery up to the very end?