Paula Cohen - What Alice Knew - A Most Curious Tale of Henry James and Jack the Ripper

“The problem,” Henry soberly addressed his brother, “is that American air is too good. Alice and I can’t take it. We need to breathe our air secondhand in the conservatory and the drawing room.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said William.

“Whether the air is good or bad is not a subject worth quarreling about,” interceded Alice. “I’m just glad you’ve come. I never feel entirely myself when I’m not with you both. The three of us are like an old plate that was broken and glued back together. You see the cracks and know you can’t use the plate, but when you see it on the shelf, it’s a joy to behold.”

“I like that.” Henry nodded.

William considered the metaphor. “I admit we’re all damaged—cracked, if you insist on putting it that way. We’ve all had our share of…” He paused, searching for the right words.

“Desperation, despair, and doom?” suggested Henry.

“Yes.” William nodded gravely. He had indeed had his share of these things—his long black moods when he couldn’t work or even read a book. There had been one episode of true madness, followed by the long years of wandering in the wilderness, fleeing from his first career as a painter, giving up on medicine. But in the end, he had found his way, turning his own warring impulses into a subject of study, transforming weakness into strength. He had married, had children, and settled into a productive life. Given his own success, he was convinced there was hope for others. The mind, no matter how wild or resistant, could be trained or willed or seduced into some sort of compliance.

“But there’s no reason for you to be in bed.” He completed his thought, peering down at his sister disapprovingly. “We’ve ruled out a physiological basis for your illness. It’s purely a case of mental adjustment. I’ve been developing ideas that might be useful to you, habits of thought—mental gymnastics, so to speak—that can alleviate the tendency toward pathological thinking and which, combined with diet and exercise—”

“It looks bad for his reputation that you won’t get well,” interrupted Henry. “He’s supposed to be an expert on the mind, but he can’t cure yours. It’s like the shoemaker’s children having no shoes.”

William ignored his brother’s remark and continued. “I see no reason why you should resign yourself.”

“I don’t resign myself,” said Alice impatiently. “I just don’t care to do mental gymnastics. I don’t have the stomach for it, or rather, the head. Besides, you both have your vocations; I won’t be cured of mine.”

“She has a point,” noted Henry. “She has everything she wants within reach; everyone comes to her. And she is free to say whatever she pleases, since an invalid is granted complete latitude. As I see it, she has arranged things beautifully.”

William glared at his brother. “It’s ridiculous for her to stay in bed all day; don’t try to make it sound creative. It may be fine for your novels, but in life we want people walking around.” He turned to his sister. “I have several ideas that may get you on your feet—”

“You will never get me on my feet.”

“You were fine after Mother died.”

“I had to take care of Father.”

“So you stay in bed because no one needs you to take care of them?”

“That would be too simple.”

“Henry needs you.”

“Henry has never needed anyone. He has his work; his characters are his family. The rest of the time, he has his admirers, mostly women of a certain age who serve very good dinners. As for you, William, you ceased to need me when you married your Alice.”

There was a momentary silence as the brothers exchanged glances. William had married an appropriate woman. Their mother had practically picked her out—she even had the same name as his sister. It was as close to marrying inside the family as one could get. And yet it wasn’t. Alice James had had her first breakdown soon after William’s marriage; Henry had fled to Europe; Wilky and Bob had begun their downward spiral into depression and alcoholism. But it wasn’t “William’s Alice” (as they referred to his wife inside the family) who had done it. It was all the things that had happened: the trauma of civil war, the need to find useful work, the simple fact of growing older. It was change itself that was to blame. The family was not a sturdy artifact, not even a simple breakable one like a plate. It was a supremely intricate and fragile structure, so intricate and so fragile that any change of pressure or temperature was bound to make it crack. Not that it was a bad thing. Henry, of all the children, saw this fact most clearly. If the family had not given him up, if the seismic shift had not happened, he would never have written a word, never have felt the need to create imaginary worlds to replace the world of his childhood.

Alice quickly moved to reassure William. “But you were right to marry. Sisters are fine for a while, but a man wants a wife and children. Except Henry, of course. He doesn’t go in for that sort of thing. And me.”

“You could have married,” noted William glumly. “You still could. There’s Norrie’s son; he always liked you.”

Alice snorted. “Norrie’s son! No one can stand him! Why is it people think women will share their beds with men they wouldn’t want to sit next to at dinner? But Norrie’s son aside, marriage holds no appeal for me. I wouldn’t marry if the man were…” She tried to think of someone who would be impressive to marry. “The Prince of Wales or even John Sargent, if he asked me. And John, if not the prince, is one of the pleasantest men I know.”

“John doesn’t go in for marriage either,” noted Henry.

“That’s true,” agreed Alice. “Nor his sister, which may be why we like them both so much. But I’m speaking hypothetically, to make the point that I am not interested in marriage or anything associated with a normal life in the world. Please don’t argue with me about it anymore.”

William knew from her tone that the subject was closed.

There was silence among them for a few moments as Alice arranged the pillows behind her head, pulled the coverlet up under her arms, and took a sip from a glass of port on her bed table. “Now,” she finally said, turning to William, her eyes growing brighter, “tell us why you are here. Your Royal Society lecture isn’t until January. Have you been invited to give another talk?”

“No.” He spoke carefully. “It’s a different kind of invitation. A very unusual one.”

“Tell us!” said Henry.

“Yes,” said Alice, “tell us!”

William reached into his vest pocket and extracted the letter from Police Commissioner Warren. He passed it to Alice. Henry shifted to the side of the bed and positioned himself so that he could peer at the letter over her shoulder.

They read for a few minutes in silence. “Extraordinary!” Henry finally exclaimed, adding, “I trust the fellow is more adept as a policeman than as a literary stylist.”

Alice, however, was not amused. She sat up very straight against her pillows and spoke quietly. “I’ve read about the Whitechapel murders and been dismayed by the lack of progress the police have made on the case. But now, finally, they have done something right; they have sent for you, William. It is a surprising step but an astute one, and I commend them for it. We can now stop these poor women from being killed.”

Henry and William glanced at each other and then exclaimed together, “ We? ”

“Yes.” She nodded. “It occurred to me, as I read William’s letter, that the solution to these horrific crimes requires the three of us. ‘Tri-ocular vision,’ I would call it.” She paused, as if working out an equation. “Henry, to observe the social world where I sense the murderer lurks and to plumb his friends and acquaintances for gossip. William, to study the physical evidence through his contact with the police and to supply psychological analysis where needed.”