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

Chapter 39

Henry had been working on his novel, practically without pause, all week. It was like that with him. Everything else was embroidery and diversion; writing was the center and foundation of his life. Bounded by a nutshell, he sometimes thought during these intensive, almost maniacal periods. He might get up for a cup of tea and a biscuit, but it was only to carry them back to his desk, too excited to stop working and eat properly. Now, for example, he sat, absently picking at the buttered crumpet that he had put down near his chair, contemplating the sentence that he had just written. We must recognize our particular form, the instrument that each of us—each of us who carries anything—carries in his being. Mastering this instrument, learning to play it in perfection, that’s what I call duty, what I call conduct, what I call success. Was he overdoing it? Perhaps he was, but the character who was speaking these words was flamboyant and extravagant, and the sentiments expressed were true.

After putting aside the idea of writing about murder and tabling his dramatization, he had decided to work on a story about art and theater, more congenial and familiar subjects. His heroine was an actress; his hero, a painter. Ellen Terry and Walter Sickert were not far from his mind; Wilde was in there; and his brother too was an oblique inspiration. He had glimpsed in William over the last few days a resurgence of the conflicted loyalties that had besieged him during his youth. He had watched with fascination as the struggle, muted by age and experience, replayed itself. He himself had never had such a struggle. After a brief and unpleasant dabbling in the law, he had plunged, with certainty, into his vocation as a writer. It had been simple for him. He could not do most things, and what he could do, he did. But William had always been capable of many things. The stress of choice had weighed on him.

In the novel Henry was working on, the hero would be like that—a man drawn to the artistic life who felt obligated to pursue a political career. With William, of course, the loyalties were different—more tangled and confused—but that was as it should be. One didn’t want art to imitate life. As deep as his characters were, they were never as deep as real people. To go that deep, one would drown.

He was engrossed in his work, scattering crumbs on the floor and spotting his notebook with butter, when a clamor was heard in the hallway, and Alice’s girl Sally pushed into the room.

“She wouldn’t wait to be announced, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, coming in behind huffily. Despite her own frequent lapses, she was always shocked by a lack of decorum in other people.

Sally, however, did not register Mrs. Smith’s protests. She had thrown off her usual timidity and, breathless and distraught, ran to Henry and pulled at his sleeve. “You must come at once,” she cried. “Your sister needs you.”

Henry required no more incentive than the girl’s frightened words. He rose hurriedly from his desk and followed her to the waiting carriage. As they drove the few blocks to the other end of Bolton Street, Sally could say only that Alice had been wild with fright, though the girl had no idea why.

It was only when they were in the carriage that he realized that it was nearly four p.m. and he had not seen William all day. Engrossed in his writing, he had lost track of time. Now it occurred to him to wonder where his brother was and why he had not heard from him. He told the driver to drive faster.