What Alice Knew: A Most Curious Tale of Henry James and Jack the Ripper

Chapter 23

Despite the momentous discovery of the afternoon, the identity of the murderer was far from Henry’s mind as he prepared to attend Wilde’s party that evening. He had heard from some of his friends that his countryman, Samuel Clemens, had just arrived in England, and that Wilde, who had met Clemens during his American tour, had invited him to be the promised surprise guest. As much as Henry enjoyed Wilde’s dinners, the thought of sitting across the table from this much touted personage did not appeal to him. He did not like the homely demeanor that Clemens affected, and he liked even less the man’s great success with it. Clemens was selling books and giving lectures, while Henry had stacks of unsold volumes moldering in a warehouse somewhere and had not been asked to lecture to anyone.

When he arrived at the Albemarle Club, the bohemian enclave that Wilde favored for his more festive gatherings, Henry made his way to the private dining room where the party was being held, ordered himself a brandy, and surveyed the company. Wilde had not yet made an appearance, but most of the other guests were already seated. There were a number of pedigreed women and the usual literati with whom Wilde liked to ornament his dinners. A surprising addition was the venerable Robert Browning, who was fielding questions on the subject of his late wife. How awful, Henry thought, to have to drag around someone else’s literary reputation and have it eternally eclipse your own.

There were a few Germans talking loudly about the scientific study of aesthetics (leave it to the Germans to turn art into science), and a contingent of Frenchmen looking superior for no other reason than that they were French.

Also present was a diverse sampling of artists. A handful of eager Pre-Raphaelites were listening with rapt attention to their mentor, Burne-Jones, who seemed to be lecturing them on the china plate. Two members of the Newlyn school, who specialized in Cornish landscape, were whispering about two members of the Marble school, who specialized in neoclassical subjects. Du Maurier was there, sketching a cartoon on his napkin, and a few minor portraitists were looking jealously at Sargent, who had just received a handsome commission for his portrait of a Liverpool factory owner’s wife. He had earned it through his ability to give her the eyes of a duchess and remedy her lack of a chin.

Henry considered his sister’s hypothesis. Were any of these people capable of a grisly series of murders? It seemed unlikely, though appearances could be deceiving.

He had ordered himself a second brandy and was beginning to relax when there was a bustle near the door, and Wilde finally appeared with his entourage, which included a number of young gentlemen with the comfortable air of stupidity that seemed to accompany hereditary privilege. Several others entered as well, and Henry caught a glimpse of a face that seemed both familiar and strange. Before he had a chance to take it in, his attention was diverted to a middle-aged man in a checkered suit with wild hair and a bushy, oversize mustache. Clemens. The very sight of this homespun creature was annoying.

“Attention mes amis,” said Oscar, tapping his spoon to his glass. “Bienvenue, à tout le monde. I want to offer a special welcome to our special guest, Mr. Samuel Clemens, or as we know him on the page, Mark Twain. He has just arrived in England and is already the toast of Europe.”

Henry winced. He had been in Europe for more than a decade and was still not the toast of it.

“I’m mighty glad to be here,” said Clemens, in what Henry believed was an affectedly flat, nasal accent, but by which the company appeared to be immediately charmed.

“What inspires your writing, Mr. Clemens?” asked one of the pedigreed women.

“Alcohol, my dear…and debt,” answered Clemens, to appreciative laughter.

“Do you think that your writing suffers from your country’s dearth of history?” asked an eager Pre-Raphaelite.

“Not at all,” responded Clemens. “I wish we could continue to avoid history, but I suspect we will soon have some of it.”

There was more laughter.

“I was struck by the use of dialect in your novel about the young boy and the runaway slave,” said a bluestocking woman who had lately taken up linguistics. “Did you study the structure of American Negro speech?”

“No, ma’am,” said Clemens. “I did not study Negro speech; I listened to it.”

A group of young men, normally intimidated by the bluestocking’s erudition, found this comment hilarious.

“Do you Americans have any women poets of note?” queried the great Browning.

“We have our poets in petticoats,” acknowledged Clemens, “but we try to avoid reading them.”

Browning looked taken aback, but Clemens proceeded to soften the remark in his genial drawl. “You see, we are a vast, untamed country and so tend to favor a more rugged style for the present. I am sure we will have our women poets in time, but for now we are carving our literature out of mud and rock.”

Henry felt his mood growing increasingly sour. It was grating to hear Clemens turn his country’s demerits into badges of honor. One could laud what was low and vulgar as much as one pleased, but that hardly prevented it from being low and vulgar.

Fortunately, the soup, lobster bisque, arrived as a momentary diversion. Henry was seated across from a group of young men of very slight appearance. “Are you partial to the Uranian school?” one asked him softly.

“Uranian?” asked Henry, confused. Sargent whispered that the Uranians worshipped boys, and Henry shook his head vigorously and turned away.

The meal progressed slowly. There was talk at the other end of the table about the relative merits of New York and London, Grover Cleveland and William Gladstone, Lillian Russell and Lillie Langtry. Clemens explained the American electoral system and the issues in the upcoming presidential election. He spoke about his business ventures, the advisability of reparations to former slaves, and the hoped-for production of a play he had written with his friend, William Dean Howells. These topics showcased his ingenuity, beneficence, and collaborative energy, thereby causing Henry’s mood to deteriorate further. That Howells, his own good friend, would collaborate with this creature—and not approach him first—was especially irritating.

During the discussion, Henry remained quiet and, despite Alice’s admonition, repeatedly motioned for his wineglass to be refilled. At one point, he turned to Sargent. “Did you know Alice thinks Jack the Ripper is a painter?” he asked abruptly. He had wanted to build gradually to this revelation, but the proceedings of the evening had caused him to lose patience.

Sargent opened his eyes wide with surprise. He and Emily had wondered why Alice had wanted samples of the different reds, but had been too discreet to ask.

“She has amassed considerable evidence to support her theory,” said Henry smugly.

Before he could say more, Clemens was at it again, regaling the company with his adventures as a steamboat captain on the Mississippi River. Sargent, diverted by the Clemens account, murmured that he looked forward to learning more about Alice’s intriguing theory and shifted his attention to the other end of the table.

Henry was disgusted. Here he was with news that a diabolical murderer might be loose in the Royal Academy, and Sargent was more interested in hearing stories about paddling down a muddy river. He made no effort to speak again.

The courses came and went. There were chicken cutlets that he thought were overcooked, a mutton chop he sampled and left on his plate, a poor selection of jellies, and a mediocre poached turbot. He drank copiously and filled himself up with potatoes. He was becoming very sullen and very intoxicated.

As the meal drew to a close, Wilde called for his honored guest to give a toast. They all rose.

“To the mother country,” declared Clemens, “from which my compatriots and I are still trying to free ourselves.”

Henry had lifted his glass but put it down. There was only so much of this sort of thing he could take.

“You will not drink to that, Henry?” asked Wilde, pleased at the prospect of a quarrel.

“No,” asserted Henry, “I do not share Mr. Clemens’s desire to sever my ties to England.”

Clemens lifted a bushy eyebrow. “It is my understanding that we fought a war of independence for that purpose,” he said.

“Political independence is one thing; cultural independence, another,” intoned Henry. “We have much to learn from our European brothers, and we would be remiss to deny it.”

“We will have a native literature only when we do,” said Clemens.

“Then we will have a bad literature,” asserted Henry. “I count on my European ties to lend weight to my writing.”

“And your writing sinks under it,” murmured Clemens.

“Your meaning, sir?” Henry took this up sharply.

“My meaning is that your prose could use more native air.”

Henry sputtered. “And yours, sir, could use more art!”

Clemens paused, as the company waited for his rejoinder. “There is such a thing as too much art,” he finally said. “I fear that Mr. James’s novels suffer from that defect. When I put them down, I find myself incapable of picking them up again.”

There was considerable laughter, and it fleetingly occurred to Henry that he and Clemens were making spectacles of themselves in front of the Europeans, which was just what vulgar Americans were expected to do. Still, he could not stop himself and countered stridently, “Sir, no person of breeding would find your writing more than a burlesque diversion.”

“Breeding?” Clemens scoffed, looking around him with mock wonder. “Who are these persons of breeding? Are they men…or horses?”

The laughter had grown very loud. Clemens’s wit—if one could call it that—was being well received.

“I…resent that!” Henry declared lamely. He had gotten very red.

“Shall we have a duel?” demanded Wilde. “Shall I get out the sabers or the pistols?”

“Dueling is an old-world custom.” Clemens laughed. “In my country we would have a boxing match. Does Mr. James box?”

Henry felt vaguely panic-stricken. Clemens was baiting him, impugning his manliness, using vulgarity to place him at a disadvantage. What should he do? He felt ill-used and humiliated, and the prospect of being punched did not seem entirely outside the sphere of possibility. He had always had a horror of physical violence.

He looked with dismay at the company; all seemed to be paying close attention and smirking. Even the French had been roused from their Gallic indifference, eager to see what would happen next.

“I don’t think our American guests should fight,” a clear voice intruded in the background. “They are both indispensable to our cultural life by showing us the world from different angles, the high and the low. Our literature would be poorer for the lack of either of them.”

Everyone turned to the speaker, a fair young man with a square jaw and hard, glittery blue eyes. Henry felt a welling of gratitude.

“That settles it, then.” Wilde laughed. “We must not allow you Americans to hurt each other. Now sit.” He pulled at Clemens’s sleeve. “We will drink some more wine. Our wine at least is better than yours, which is reason enough to settle here.”

Henry dropped into his chair. As the wine was poured and the ices served, he pondered the episode that had just transpired. Who was it who had intervened? He looked to the front of the room and saw that the young man who had saved him had moved off to the side and was combing through a bag of what looked like costume apparel. Henry felt suddenly light-headed. Was that the face he had seen and remembered at the beginning of the evening? For weeks he had been trying to recall something from the dinner party at Gosse’s (if it had been Gosse’s). He believed this young man had been there. Indeed, he was certain he was. A memorable face. How had he forgotten it?

Once the ices had been cleared and the Madeira served, Wilde stood up and raised his glass. “To art and song,” he said. “I promised on a recent occasion that we would perform some musical hall turns. We have rehearsed something for this evening.” He motioned to the young man, whom James had been watching in the corner, who stepped forward. He was holding a wig and a piece of drapery. He placed the wig on his head and wrapped the drape around his shoulders, curtsied, and smiled. Even in this makeshift ironic garb, he had managed a transformation. There was now a pretty young girl in place of a handsome young man. A natural gift for mimicry, thought Henry admiringly.

“We shall perform ‘Oh, False One, You Have Deceived Me’ from Pirates of Penzance, by our friends Messieurs Gilbert and Sullivan,” announced Wilde.

There followed a lively rendition of the song, a call and response of the conventional farcical variety. Wilde sang with requisite brio, and the young man, with a sweetly coquettish lilt. Light musical numbers were not to Henry’s taste, but he granted that Oscar and the young man performed well. Especially the young man.

At the end, Wilde bowed low, and his partner curtsied and pulled off his wig. There was enthusiastic applause by the guests—even the blasé Frenchmen seemed to have been entertained.

Henry joined vigorously in the applause. It seemed the young man was looking directly at him. Perhaps he wanted a sign of thanks for having intervened in the encounter with Clemens. He nodded an acknowledgment, but the young man did not blink. Perhaps he was not looking at him at all. Still, Henry could not avert his own gaze. He was transfixed by the young man’s eyes, which were glacially blue. He felt a shiver pass through himself.

“Who is he?” he whispered to Sargent.

“Walter Sickert. An apprentice to Whistler.”

An artist! “Is he any good?”

“Talented but macabre.”

“How’s that?” asked Henry sharply.

“Dark palette. Tawdry subjects.”

Wilde motioned graciously to the young man. “My friend here is even more gifted as a painter than as a music hall performer. You must all go see his work. Buy it or write about it, and make him more famous than Whistler. Do your imitation of Jimmy’s laugh again, Walter.”

“‘Ha ha!’” said the young man.

“That’s Jimmy!” cried Wilde. “‘Ha ha.’ You do it better.”

Henry caught his breath. It came back to him in a rush. They had talked of Jack the Ripper at that dinner party the night of his ordeal. This Sickert had been present at that occasion and had noted that the “ha ha” in the letters put him in mind of Whistler. He had imitated Whistler’s laugh, then!

Sickert. The name was suggestive. Dickensian, if Henry wanted the name for a murderer. Not that he did. Indeed, a feeling of warmth for the young man competed with a feeling of dread.

It had been an extremely stressful evening, one Henry would not want to repeat, but he had learned something of importance, though he did not know what it was. If his logical faculties were weak, his instincts were strong. He had found a germ. He would have to bring it to Alice and see what she could make of it.