THE MONKEY'S PAW
by W. W. Jacobs, 1902

Although W. W. Jacobs is best known for his humorous short stories—he was hailed as a master by P. G. Wodehouse—he did on occasion venture into other forms. For example, he left five novels, which are still agreeable to read although one senses that he was not entirely at ease with the genre. They lack the organic development of plot that the form demands and give the impression of episodes deftly knitted together. He was at his happiest within the discipline of the short story, rewriting and revising the taut narrative at a laborious rate of 100 words a day. He did not always restrict himself to light comedy. He sometimes verged on what a later age would describe as black humor, which led him to experiment with the macabre. A chilling example is "The Interruption" (Sea Whisper), about a man who murders his wife for her money and is afterward blackmailed by his housekeeper. When he plans to poison her as well, the scheme goes awry, and he meets his own death. Another exercise in the macabre is "Jerry Bundler" (Light Freights), a ghost story that is highly believable since in Jacobs's skillful narrative no ghost makes an actual appearance. His most macabre story is "The Monkey's Paw" (The Lady of the Barge), written around 1900 when he was at the height of his powers. Since then it has been the subject of a play and a film. ("The Lady of the Barge" was also successful as a play and "The Boatswain's Mate" as an opera by Dame Ethel Smyth.)

The plot of "The Monkey's Paw" is unfolded with rigorous logic. It opens with a typical piece of economical scene setting. What, in contrast with the eerie events to follow, could be more commonplace than the suburban home known as Laburnum Villa? Outside, the rain is falling viciously, and the road is a streaming torrent:

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnum 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.

They are awaiting the arrival of their old friend Sergeant Major Morris, now back in England after long service in India. He at last finds his way through the storm, and in the course of conversation he shows them a monkey's paw that has dried to a mummy. A fakir, he explains, has put a spell on it in order to show that people who interfere with fate do so to their own sorrow. The fakir decreed that three separate men should each have three separate wishes from the paw. Mr. White's son Herbert jocularly asks the sergeant if he has had his three wishes. The sergeant, white faced, his hand trembling, replies that he has. "The first man had his three wishes," he adds. "I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw." It has caused enough mischief, he says, and he throws it on the fire. Despite the sergeant's warning Mr. White hastily snatches it back. The paw is forgotten as the rest of the evening passes in tales of adventure in the mysterious East.

Late at night, when the sergeant has gone, the family discusses the sinister talisman he has so unwillingly given them. Herbert suggests that his father wish for £7, 200 to pay off the mortgage. Mr. White, a little shamefaced, holds the monkey's paw and speaks his wish. Like a snake, the thing twitches, and they uneasily go to bed. Next day a representative of Herbert's employer calls. He tells the old couple that their son has died in an accident with machinery. He offers compensation in the form of £7, 200.

The days pass in mourning, and Mrs. White urges her husband to make a second wish that their boy return alive. He does so reluctantly, but nothing happens. Then, in the darkness of the night a fusillade of knocks is heard. Mrs. White hurries downstairs while her husband, petrified with fear, begs her not to open the door. She struggles with the bolt as he gropes for the talisman. He finds it and frantically makes his third and last wish. As he does so, the knocking ceases, the door opens, and the street lamp flickers on an empty road.

As in "Jerry Bundler," Jacobs creates an atmosphere of horror by avoiding direct description and concentrating on subtle detail: the heavy rain, the darkness, the imagined appearance of a ghastly simian mask in the dying embers of the fire, the squeaky stair, the rustle of a scurrying mouse, the cold wind rushing up the staircase after the wife has opened the door. There is no need for him to depict "the mutilated son" whom Mr. White fears he will see if his third wish is granted. The style is spare and precise, and not a word could be added or a word taken away without damaging the effect. In context incidents that in themselves are harmless become hauntingly significant: "The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired." When the sergeant is asked whether he has had his three wishes granted, he says no more than "I did," but "his glass tapped against his teeth." The participants in the drama are drawn with swift, indelible strokes: the veteran sergeant who knows more than he cares to tell, the youthfully facetious son, the doting mother, the incredulous father. "The Monkey's Paw" is not to be dismissed as an ordinary ghost story. It is a small masterpiece of horror by an unusually gifted writer.

—James Harding