The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper (11 page)

After my introduction to the Norcote household, I paid other visits at intervals of a fortnight or so; and then, encouraged by the increasing cordiality of my reception by Dr. Norcote, who, I soon perceived, realized in which direction the wind lay, I began to call more frequently.

Discreetly, and in the most casual manner, old Dr. Norcote drew from me particulars of my financial standing, and since his friendliness to me showed no signs of abatement I gathered that he found my position satisfactory. He asked after my parents and I told him simply that they had died when I was eighteen; naturally I made no mention of the manner of their passing.

Of Julia herself I will say little; I do not care to recall the little mannerisms, the tricks of speech and gesture, the trivial incidents which endeared her to me. Even after the passage of so many years the memory of them is tinged with bitterness. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? No; I dispute that old adage. A thousand times better had I never met my love.

Poor Julia! Did you mourn your sallow, black-haired James for long? Did you, through the years, sometimes wonder regretfully what had become of him; whether he still lived? Were you ever told why the happiness you expected was so suddenly wrenched from you? That you no longer live, I know, but did you die a wife or a grandmother perhaps, the palimpsest of your first love affair almost obliterated by later joys? That you did love me I know; I hope you loved again; I hope my “poor Julia!” is needless.

My courtship reached its crisis in the later days of July 1888. I had arranged to take my Julia to the theatre, with the tacit approval of her father and, after a careful examination of the bills of fare offered by the various houses, had booked two stalls for an entertainment which, I thought, would contain nothing likely to offend the susceptibilities of a lady. To the modern mind such delicacy on my part will doubtless seem grotesque.

I dressed myself that evening with the greatest care; I examined myself from several angles in my inadequate bed-room mirror. I split my gloves in pulling them on to my perspiring hands and tingled with anxiety in case I should be late while my good landlady hastily stitched the tears. For the prospect before me that evening was not only a visit to the theatre, but a proposal; and though I had little doubt of the outcome I could not wholly restrain my nervousness.

I have no recollection of the play I witnessed that evening.

After the theatre I took Julia home in a hansom, my declaration not yet made. I might have proposed in the hansom, but by the time I had made up my mind to do so we had arrived at Julia's house. I asked permission to come in as I had “something to say,” and Julia, with an air of being entirely unsuspicious of what that something might be, allowed me to do so.

I left the house just before mid-night an engaged man.

I should prefer not to write this chapter; its composition recalls too vividly that which I would rather forget. But it is essential to my narrative and I cannot omit it.

De Quincey remarks, in one of his essays, upon the difficulty of a man's assignment of any particular day as the happiest in his life; and goes on to point out that if any such day could be specified the event which distinguished it must necessarily be of such an outstanding character as to illuminate many ensuing years. Of my own experience I can say that a day which contains such terror or misfortune that it may be set aside and distinguished as the most unhappy, the most horrible day of a man's life, must, of equal necessity, cast a shadow upon many years to follow. The day after my acceptance to Julia was such a day.

It would be more correct to say the evening following, for the day itself opened well enough. I had had an uneasy night, for having retired in a condition of nervous excitement I was unable to sleep until about four in the morning. I lay turning over in my mind the events of the evening; pondering the best form of words to employ when approaching Julia's father next day. And from these two sets of thoughts which alternated in my mind like two recurring units of a roundabout I suddenly took to a side track. I began to envisage my future; to speculate upon that life which lay before me. I pictured the house I would like to occupy with Julia; how we would furnish it; I deliberately projected my mind into a future which I desired. And then some detail which I pictured would, by an association of ideas, recall to me some event of my past. My mind would be wrenched out of the delightful future where it had been dwelling to something dull and forbidding which I would strive to dismiss.

But those thoughts could not be wholly dismissed; my wandering and now somewhat feverish thoughts took another turn; I commenced to toy with certain doubts which I had, in the sanity of day-time, thrust from me but which now, in the soul-searching darkness of night, could not be so readily ignored. A certain Voice gradually grew into my consciousness, insistent and disturbing. It spoke colloquially and in a logical manner of things which I did not wish to discuss; it broke in upon my thoughts like the voice of a garrulous travelling companion upon the thread of a book which one is trying to read. I told myself the Voice was purely imaginative; that my mind was too active; but I listened and then tried to ignore what it had said.

When, eventually, I fell asleep I was visited by dreams of an extremely unpleasant character.

In the morning the sun was shining and I felt like a man who, having been constrained to spend the night in some foul den, cleanses himself by plunging into a cool, gleaming river. I put behind me all recollection of the vile night I had spent and passed into my sitting-room singing. (The term is a courtesy one for I am not far from being tone-deaf.) The sound brought an arch smile to the fat face of my good landlady as she entered with my breakfast. It was not a critical smile; rather one of indulgence and understanding. Had she not practically sped me on my wooing the evening before; and could she doubt now, from my caterwauling, that my enterprise had been successful?

At about mid-day the sun disappeared and it began to rain as it had rained almost incessantly for weeks. For that summer of 1888 was, I remember, a loathsome one. But even the rain could not dissipate my feeling of gladness. I sat at my sitting-room window and watched the downpour; and thought. I did not leave the house until the evening, when I set out for the house of Julia's father.

—

I was nervous, I admit; for I could not avoid a slight anxiety as to whether the Doctor would consent to my formal engagement to his daughter. I felt reasonably certain, from his past attitude to me, that he would raise no objection, but I could not fail to perceive the remote possibility for, after all, my acquaintance with Julia had been short. I had no suspicion of the blow that was to fall upon me, no foreboding of the ghastly jest which Destiny had prepared for me. I hurried along the streaming streets humming cheerfully under my breath, sheltering myself and a bouquet of roses under my umbrella. I was contented with the world, rain-sodden as it was. “Happy” is purely a relative term I know; but on that particular evening I was happy as I had never been before; happier, certainly, than I have ever been since.

It is from such elevated heights as these that Destiny loves to dislodge us; our fall is so much harder.

A smirking parlour-maid admitted me to Dr. Norcote's house and, in a few moments, I was greeting Julia in a manner proper to the occasion. Her father and brother were at a medical dinner I learned; but I was quite content to await their return. Julia and I sat together on a sofa in the drawing-room.

I possess, to a high degree, the faculty of visual recollection. My memories frequently take the form of actual pictures in which I and my fellow-actors move silently like the performers on a cinema sheet. More especially is this the case when the events have been of an outstanding character; I then seem to have forgotten most of the conversation; the auditory side of the memory seems to have been ousted by the visual. So, on this occasion, I can picture, quite clearly, the Norcotes' drawing-room; I can recall little of what was said between Julia and myself. The room was papered, I remember, with a kind of silvery buff and much of the wall-space was concealed by oils, water-colours, photos and those little black silhouettes which were once so common; all framed in gilt. There was a certain amount of gilt, also, about the furniture, but no definite style prevailed. There were two fine Jacobean chairs; an ormolu cabinet containing china and silver; an upright piano and a harp (Julia had some skill with the latter instrument); an inlaid satinwood side-table. And on one wall was one of those round, gilt-framed convex mirrors which reflected Julia and me as we sat upon a pale-blue upholstered settee. Our every movement was re-enacted there, our figures diminished to microscopic proportions and slightly distorted by the curvature of the glass. That bright-lit circle of glass was like a miniature marionette show. It fascinated me then, but now I can never see one of those convex mirrors without experiencing a shudder.

I was looking into that little mirror. I could see two doll-like forms, close together. Julia was, in fact, reclining against me, her head upon my shoulder. I could see in the glass the white gleam of her shoulders, for she was in evening dress. Then, as I gazed, the circle of glass suddenly darkened with a swirling movement as though its face had been obscured by a wreath of moving vapour. This smoke-like effect gradually coalesced and from it the wraith of a face appeared; it was like the gradual development of a photographic image on a modern “negative.” In a moment the face had gone; almost before I had had time to analyse the sense of vague familiarity which the face engendered. It had gone, and the glass cleared, though only partially; through the vagueness one surface only gleamed with almost startling distinctness—the white of Julia's neck and shoulders. Then I felt myself go rigid, for I had perceived that round the white column of that neck ran a line of vivid scarlet, and that drops oozed and dripped from it to the white bosom beneath. And, in an instant, I was not horrified; I felt a wave of excitement, a sudden thirst. I turned from the miniature picture before me; moving my head slowly and almost furtively until my eyes rested upon the real neck beside me.

There was no thread of scarlet there, of course; but in my suddenly awaked imagination I saw it. That softly rounded mass was no longer the neck of my beloved, but a pillar of flesh pulsating with blood, an object of fascinating possibility. My hands trembled; I could feel the sensation of piercing and slitting that smooth surface with the razor-like edge of a scalpel; I could anticipate, with horrible relish, the gush of blood which would ensue.

Something wrenched my eyes from that tempting neck back to the mirror. It was now swirling and twisting again, but this time with a reddish tinge. The image of the neck could still be perceived, but the thread of red had now become a gushing fountain; it flooded the surface of the mirror as though it had been a horizontal object charged to overflowing with blood. Then drops began to creep over the frame and to drip steadily down the wall.

I stiffened and must, I think, have uttered a gasp. I seemed to hear a hoarse guttural sound, and the figure beside me straightened and Julia's face peered into mine. The lips moved but I do not know what she said. I saw a pair of large, dark eyes gazing into my own; they widened until a circle of white surrounded the irises. That expression of horror fanned my overmastering excitement; I cast a swift look around the room in search of a weapon—anything with a blade, a paper-knife, a curio. And, sub-consciously, one of my hands rose, the fingers crooked and twitching, towards Julia's throat.

At that moment the spell was broken. A sharp sound penetrated my consciousness; the slam of the street door. With a return to partial sanity I rose abruptly to my feet and took one or two staggering steps backwards, my face towards Julia. She was huddled back on the settee, staring at me, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth.

At the back of the settee was another mirror—a large, flat one; and in this was reflected the round convex glass with its miniature marionette show. I could see in this tiny circle the black-clad back of a standing figure, curiously humped and distorted by the curvature of the glass; as I retreated from the settee, I was conscious, though my eyes were upon Julia's face, that the little black figure was growing into a bloated, fantastic shape until it filled the entire circle of the mirror.

Then I turned abruptly and rushed from the room. I collided with Dr. Norcote who had just reached the threshold. He gripped me firmly by the shoulders and stared down into my face which, owing to my shorter stature, was considerably lower than his own. Without speaking he held me for some moments and in that brief time I was conscious of a vague surprise that this face which looked into my own was not the face of Dr. Norcote to which I had been accustomed. The rather stupidly pompous expression had given way to one hard and forbidding.

He suddenly relaxed his hold and, as I staggered back against the lintel of the door, I realized that his hands had been almost supporting me. He stepped into the drawing-room and looked fixedly towards where I knew Julia still sat on the settee. Still he said no word, and the only sound to be heard was the grave tick, tick of a grandfather clock which stood near the street door.

Dr. Norcote returned to the hall and closed the door of the drawing-room behind him. He took his stand directly before me, his legs slightly apart and his thumbs resting in the pockets of his waistcoat. “I met an old colleague of your father's this evening, young man,” he said. He spoke kindly, but his face was still stern and cold. That brief sentence and the manner in which it was uttered told me that he had discovered who my father had been and the whole hideous tragedy of my parents' deaths. I had no need to hear more, for whatever he was preparing to add to his remark had no significance for me now. Something far more potent than Dr. Norcote's objections had stepped in to render my marriage to Julia impossible.

I attempted to speak and found, to my surprise, that my mouth and tongue were stiff and dry. I raised a hand and made stabbing motions with my finger towards the drawing-room and Julia. I do not know what, exactly, I was trying to say, but I desisted on seeing the strange expression upon the doctor's face. It was a look of curiosity, of scientific appraisal, like that of a man who is examining for the first time some strange curiosity of nature in which he is interested. That look filled me with shame, but also with indignation. I stepped backwards until my head bumped against the edge of a heavy picture-frame. The jolt must have imparted a slight motion to the picture, for Dr. Norcote momentarily turned his eyes from my face to the wall behind me. That released a kind of spell and I burst into a croaking laugh. Then, without more ado, I turned to the hat-stand where hung my hat, umbrella and light overcoat and, seizing these articles, unlatched the street door. I turned for a last look, and saw that the doctor still stood in the same position regarding me; I stepped out of the house and slammed the door loudly behind me. I was met by a perfect hurricane of rain.

I can recollect standing on that step fumbling with my coat and swearing at my own clumsiness. I did not stop to button the coat, nor did I raise my umbrella. I just staggered off into the rain, my coat-tails flapping behind me.

It all sounds like a scene from a “Surrey” melodrama, I know.

—

The tiger had been sleeping. The tiger had only been sleeping. I could never marry Julia; never marry any woman. The tiger which lurked within me, setting me apart from my fellows, would not allow it. Fool, to suppose that I was like my fellows. The affair of my uncle, my reaction to knives, many of my thoughts and feelings should have shown me the difference! “The tiger awakes!” The phrase struck me as absolutely fitting and appropriate. I culled it over and over again, trying to fit it into the rhythm of my splashing footsteps. The—tiger—awakes—splash splash. The—splash—tiger—splash—awakes—splash. No; that was too slow. The tiger—

Plodding through the puddles, I was still only sub-consciously aware of the rain. I knew it was raining, but no glimmer of common-sense prompted me to guard against it by closing my coat or unfurling my umbrella. In a few minutes my trousers were soaked to the knees. A passing hansom spattered my shirt-front with mud; I only cursed. I had no thought of where I was going; what did it matter now? I walked on, with long strides, my head down, my coat flapping like the ragged feathers of some black bird of prey. I passed a policeman in a glistening cape, standing beneath an archway. He stared at me owlishly as I swept by. On I went. Then I gradually became aware of a woman's voice at my elbow; some painted creature of the night, evidently misinterpreting my condition as one of drunkenness, had fastened upon me considering me an easy prey. I caught a few words: “Come on, dearie—give me something, dearie—come along home with me, dearie—” as she tried to suit her gait to my swinging progress. At last her importunity annoyed me; it did not fit in with my rhythmic phrase; it was discordant. I turned on her with a snarl. “If I come home with you, dearie,” I muttered, “I shall cut your throat. Cut your throat. The tiger awakes; I shall cut your throat.” I thrust my face into hers and saw, in the uncertain light, how the rain had streaked and raddled her paint. Her hat was a sodden mass, and wisps of damp hair hung over her eyebrows. Her sooty-rimmed eyes widened with fear as she caught the gist of my muttering, and she stepped away from me with a gasp. “Cut your throat. Cut your throat.” That phrase fitted in as well as the other. I repeated it to myself as I strode on.