The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper (9 page)

When I had been living with my uncle for some time he suddenly decided, after scrutinizing me one morning, that it was about time I began to shave. And I was forced to agree with him. My hair was dark, and a noticeable fluffy down was appearing on my jaws.

My uncle said he would buy me a razor. “Do you think you can use it without cutting your throat?” he asked, jocularly; and then pulled his face straight with a jerk. The old chap evidently remembered the tactlessness of referring to throat-cutting. I thought I could manage the operation of shaving without accident, but in order to “see how it was done” it was decided that my first shave should be conducted by a professional, and I paid a visit to a neighbouring barber.

I think it was on first handling the razor presented to me by my uncle that I realized the existence of a curious feeling which had been growing upon me for some time in connection with knives. How can I possibly explain that feeling? It was not a fear of knives; it was more nearly an attraction. I had a special sensitiveness to knives which I had not for any other inanimate objects. Let me put it in the form of an analogy. I believe that a man in the early stages of locomotor ataxia is conscious to an exaggerated extent of the effort necessary in walking. I do not mean simply that he finds it difficult to use his legs, but simply that he is conscious of using them. The normal person walks with sub-conscious action; the man suffering from a disease such as I have mentioned exercises, and knows that he is exercising, definite mental effort in using his legs. He is conscious of them.

So, although I laced my boots, used a pen, combed my hair without any but a sub-conscious regard for the laces, the pen or the comb, as soon as I took a knife into my hand I became definitely aware of the properties and uses of a knife. It was something special, something with the attributes of novelty without being novel, something distinct from anything else which I handled. I fear I cannot hope to make this feeling clear; the person oppressed by some special fear—such as a fear of cats or thunder-storms—may possibly comprehend me, the person with normal reactions probably will not.

When I handled my new razor and commenced, with some hesitation, to shave myself, I realized that the feeling, which I have tried to indicate, had been steadily growing in me, and the discovery set me thinking. I tried to analyse it. I decided, at once, that I was not afraid of knives in the sense that I feared I might cut myself; I applied my razor to my cheek without any sense of apprehension whatever. Nevertheless it was the cutting properties of the razor which gave it distinction, and it was the fact that the razor possessed greater efficiency in its cutting properties than a table-knife or a pen-knife which had suddenly brought home to me the appreciation of my special “sense” for cutting edges generally.

Once I had perceived this curious “sense” for knives—or, perhaps, “fascination” will more clearly express my sensations—I began to watch it. I became increasingly aware of my feeling whenever I picked up my knife at the table; I handled it as I might have handled some rare and precious object; I fondled the handle and looked (I may say almost lovingly) at the sleek shininess of the blade and the thread of special brightness running along the edge. (Though our table-knives were usually deficient in sharpness owing to my uncle's plate-sawing habit.) And then came my second realization. For in watching with disgust my uncle's feeding I became aware that what appealed to me about knives was not only that they would cut, but what they would cut. And the association of that cutting—the flowing of blood. Whenever my uncle introduced a portion of food into his mouth on the tip of his knife, I paused in my own eating, furtively watching for the slitting of his mouth. When, using his knife as a squeejee, he scraped up a mass of thick gravy and tossed it into his mouth, I waited expectantly for the sudden cry and the gushing of blood. But it never came; long practice had made my uncle dexterous. He always succeeded in withdrawing the knife without accident.

I think it was this fascination of knives which clinched my decision to embrace my father's profession. I had no desire to doctor mumps or measles nor, I will admit, any wish to alleviate human suffering. But I wanted to dissect. I wanted to cut flesh, not cooked meat but human flesh. How ghoulish it must seem, set down in black and white.

—

Soon after we moved into the New Cross house, I learned from my uncle that the sum of money which my father had inherited from his aunt—but the bulk of which he had never handled—would descend to me. My uncle took up my financial affairs energetically, and he and I had several interviews with a firm of solicitors who were dealing with the estate. My uncle, upon the information he received, estimated that I could rely on an income of about two-hundred and fifty pounds a year and his estimate subsequently proved to be fairly accurate. My uncle, by the way, had been nominated by my father as the sole executor of his will.

I have forgotten exactly what arrangement was come to in the matter of my inheritance; whether my uncle was appointed my trustee either by the terms of my father's will or by the courts, or whether he simply “minded” my money. I do remember that he allowed me very lavish pocket money and that it was an understood thing that when occasion arose for my use of any larger sum the money was available for me.

After my parents' deaths I did not return to school; my uncle was no believer in “book-learning” and in those days a high degree of education was not considered so essential as it is to-day. But my uncle held very strongly the opinion that, in spite of the fact that I had an independent income, I should embrace some calling. He had a great contempt for what he called “idle young loafers” and suggested to me that as the means were available I should qualify in some “respectable profession.” He was aware of my passion for drawing, but he viewed it indulgently as a rather childish pastime and could not be made to accept it as a definite occupation. He was of the opinion that I could not do better than enter my father's profession, and as I could not think of anything else and was, as I have previously indicated, biased by certain feelings, I agreed that my uncle might make enquiries as to the procedure of learning to be a doctor. I was somewhat dismayed to learn, as a result of the enquiries, that I should have to commit myself to a course of study covering five years before I could qualify; but still, that study promised to be interesting. I fell in with my uncle's scheme if not with absolute enthusiasm, at least with a certain pleasurable anticipation, and so the thing was settled. I succeeded in passing the preliminary examination required, and was duly entered at a London medical school which there is no need for me to specifically mention.

I continued to live with my uncle, but in view of the fact that my new life of studentship would necessarily be accompanied by a freedom to which, up to that time, I had been unaccustomed, my uncle took an opportunity on the eve of the commencement of my studies to favour me with a few words of advice. Even after the lapse of time I can almost recall his exact words. “Now, Jim, my boy,” he said, “I know a youngster don't take no notice of an old man's advice, but I'm going to say it for all that. I reckon you'll have your fling like every other lad, and by all I hear, medical students are a pretty wild lot. But go easy on the cards and the women. Playing cards for money is about the silliest way of wasting time I know of; as for women, well You're old enough now to know what's what and if you don't you soon will know it. But be careful and don't make a damned fool of yourself. For one thing don't begin to think of getting tied up to some young woman by marrying her. A young man married is a young man marred. And above all, my boy—while we're on the subject—do be careful. Many a youngster's been ruined for life by catching something; you'll soon learn all about that as You're going to be a doctor. But remember, Jim, if you do get into any sort of trouble you've got an old uncle to come to; and that old uncle ain't a canting saint.”

I have thought that fathers might do worse than give similar advice to their sons. And shall I be thought unduly cynical in saying that it has afforded me a certain amount of satisfaction to know that I have always observed my uncle's advice on the matter of cards?

—

It would be unprofitable, and would occupy too much time, for me to set down here the details of my daily life in London at that period; that life was the life of the average medical student and can have but little interest for the reader in comparison with the details of my later activities, an account of which is, after all, the main justification for this book.

I could write much on the subject of the dissecting-room, that rather uncanny, vault-like room where the “subjects” were raised out of “pickle” by means of a kind of ship's tackle; of old Henry, the red-headed demonstrator with his wart-covered hands. Of the Hunterian museum with its pickled specimens in their large jars of spirit—a museum which, being unavailable to the ordinary sightseer, might form the subject of quite an interesting description. That museum I know well, and I recall that after my first visit to it my stomach experienced certain qualms on perceiving the nature of the meal prepared for me upon my return home. It consisted of pork-chops; white meat. Perhaps only a person who has visited the museum will appreciate the niceties of this point.

Practical anatomy which I took up in due course was, of all my studies, the branch which interested me the most. There is something fascinating to me in the very feel of the flesh under the razor-like edge of the scalpel; it cuts almost like cold ham. And the process of methodically taking to bits a human member, such as an arm, I found extraordinarily engrossing. Of course, we students were not given each an entire carcass on which to operate; “subjects” could not be purchased by the score. We had to content ourselves with an arm, a leg or, in partnership, a trunk. And a certain drawback, to my mind, lay in the absence of blood.

When, later on in my course, I attended the operating theatre to see my first operation, I was one of the few younger students who was not, judging by observation, afflicted with nausea.

In reading what I have so far written I am appalled by the relatively small amount of ground I have covered; I am becoming increasingly aware of my insufficiency as a writer. When I began this autobiography I had no intention of involving myself in the compilation of several volumes of reminiscences, and it is evident that unless I can curb my tendency to dwell in detail upon what I regard as the more interesting events of my early career—which is probably a manifestation of the tendency to verbosity usual in a person of my years—I shall never maintain the energy to complete this record. I must therefore refrain from a detailed account of my life at the medical school and the few friends I made there—which would be, after all, irrelevant—and press on with my story.

I did not qualify as a doctor, for I did not complete my course of studies. Circumstances (I cannot think of a better word) conspired against me; and when I say “circumstances” I am thinking of one particular event which, in itself, was almost laughingly trivial. My uncle suddenly decided to shave off his whiskers.

As I have already mentioned, my uncle's red and jolly-looking face was framed in a fringe of grey chin-whiskers of the kind vulgarly known as “nitties” or, to make it plainer to the present generation, the kind of whiskers with which Dan'l Peggotty is represented in illustrations to David Copperfield. When my uncle removed his whiskers he revealed an expanse of smooth, shining throat. It was not the kind of throat usually seen in the elderly, when the flesh, having lost its elasticity, exhibits sagging folds; it was like a roll of stretched fat, bladder-like or resembling in its sleek surface a large, flat goitre.

I was curiously disturbed when I first saw this exposed throat and without offering any exposition of self-analysis I may say at once that it fascinated me to such an extent that I experienced a sudden desire to cut it.

Now I am not so foolish as to suppose that my reaction in this matter was normal; I am quite prepared to admit that in certain ways my mentality is abnormal. But the difference between the person who, say, holds an unreasoning aversion to cats, and the person with an inclination to pass a razor across a temptingly bladder-like throat is a difference only of degree. The first is not regarded as insane even by the most narrow-minded; why then should the second? The incipient throat-cutter may be homicidal, but he is not necessarily a maniac, for on all other matters of daily comportment he may be rigidly conventional. The fact of the matter is that the popular conception of insanity is graded according to the danger involved to the community. The abnormal person who is unable to resist the temptation to possess himself or herself of another person's property is not called a lunatic but a kleptomaniac—a sort of half-way to lunacy. When apprehended the kleptomaniac is accommodated with a seat in the dock and fined a trifling amount, but is not sent to an asylum. But the person labouring under an apparently unreasonable urge to cut throats is, in the popular view, a maniac; for a human life is held to be of more value to the possessor than his watch. But note well, you writers of encyclopaedias, that the difference is one only of degree.

When I first became conscious of my feelings in the matter of my uncle's throat they had not grown beyond a vague curiosity and itch as to the sensations to be derived—perhaps I should say the satisfaction to be derived—from such an enterprise. I did not feel immediately that I must cut his throat; my mind merely toyed with the idea. But even if I made any serious endeavour to dismiss the idea I did not succeed, for that fascinating throat was always before me. Particularly at meal-times was my attention directed to the object of my thoughts, for in the process of gobbling and guzzling my uncle contrived, in some indescribable way, to exhibit his throat. I could not avoid looking at it. And mixed up with my vague inclinations was my intense feeling of irritation at his table-manners, which developed into the realization that if I should actually cut his throat that irritation would cease.

At the same time I do not wish to convey the idea that my inclination was tinged with resentment towards my uncle. On the contrary, when the inclination grew into an urgent desire with which I had seriously to cope, I mastered it for some time by opposing the thought of my uncle's excellence of character. I knew, and I told myself over and over again, and thoroughly realized, that I had no grievance against my uncle—apart from his table-habits. I had a great regard for him; he had been kind and generous; we were great friends. No; there was no question of my wishing to kill my uncle for motives of dislike or revenge. I merely felt that keen desire to cut his throat as a fascinating experiment because his throat was of a kind to affect me in that way.

Students of Edgar Allan Poe will be familiar with the tale “The Tell-Tale Heart” in which a somewhat similar urge is portrayed. In that case it was an old man's eye of a peculiar character which led to a development of homicidal tendency in the imaginary narrator. But there the parallel ends, for Poe's “subject” was, on his own showing, a lunatic. For, quite apart from his desire to kill the old man, he was unbalanced in every respect and, as shown in his behavior towards the investigators, quite incompetent to conduct his own affairs. I never stood for hours during the night on the threshold of my uncle's room focusing a single ray from a dark lantern upon my uncle's throat; I never lost sight of the fact that in the event of my succumbing to the temptation which assailed me I should be placing myself within the vengeance of the law. I knew, and did not shirk the fact, that throat-cutting is not a permissible enterprise; that if I did actually cut my uncle's throat one night as he lay in bed I should, if caught, be undoubtedly hanged.

I admit that for a time I toyed with the idea that it was possible for me to cut that throat and escape detection, but common sense convinced me that even were the police not so omniscient as they were generally supposed to be, the fact that I was the person in closest contact with my uncle would arouse a certain suspicion in the dullest mind.

I remember very vividly how I wrestled with my strange inclination. Night after night I would lie sleepless upon my bed, tossing about in a hot, feverish condition, to fall asleep in the small hours of the morning into dreams in which the principal object of my oppression was a large, sleek, shining throat which gaped redly—like two other throats which I had seen.

The crisis came at last on one night after weeks of troubled thought. I arose from my bed at about two in the morning unreasoningly intent upon carrying out my project. The desire to cut that throat had suddenly become so over-whelming as to swamp entirely all thoughts of risk to myself and all recollections of kindness received from the old chap sleeping in the adjoining room. In a kind of unthinking deliberation I lit a candle and exchanged my night-shirt for my day-clothes. Although I say I was unthinking, I was obsessed by an adventurous expectation; a rather pleasant sensation of anticipation which was accompanied by a definite physical feeling, which it is almost impossible to describe, in the region of the solar plexus. I was in no hurry; I prolonged this sensation deliberately by dressing fully, even to my tie. But I finally drew around my neck a dark muffler, and put on my felt slippers.

Then I went to the chest of drawers and brought from beneath a pile of clothing where it had lain my father's large scalpel. It glistened in the candle-light and I examined the edge; my desire received a fresh impetus as I realized (from memories of my hospital dissection) the feeling of satisfaction which would accrue as that keen edge sunk into the fat, shiny roll of my sleeping uncle's throat. I blew out the candle and opened my window.

As I have previously mentioned, the verandah-like portico outside the house was approachable from my own as well as from my uncle's room. I stepped out on to it and crept softly to my uncle's window which, as I had supposed, was slightly open, for the time was midsummer. I made haste, for already there was a slight lightness in the sky and, in spite of my dark clothes, I feared that I might be seen if a policeman happened to be passing near. Softly raising the window sash I dropped into my uncle's room.

For some minutes I stood in darkness, but as my eyes became accustomed to the light, I was able to make out my uncle's bed and his form upon it. He was grossly snoring with a blowing, rattling sound. I stood beside him and looked down in the gloom.

But I could not see him clearly; the night was too dark. And I felt my deed would lack satisfaction unless I could see as well as feel my scalpel penetrating the goitre-like surface. A candle stood beside my uncle's bed and, feeling around this, my hand encountered a box of matches; I resolved to light the candle, for even if this awoke him I needed but a fraction of time for one slash of my blade. Very cautiously I fumbled the match-box open and, striking a light, applied it to the wick of the candle. In the instant during which the wax around the wick melted and the light of the candle grew bright, the snoring abruptly ceased and, turning again to my uncle, I perceived that his eyes were wide open.

I think that the ensuing moment was the most dramatic I have experienced, not excluding, even, the phases of my later exploits. I stood looking down at my uncle, the scalpel poised at the level of my breast; he gazed fixedly up into my face. Our faces were hardly a yard apart. His first expression was one of extraordinary amazement, and this changed briefly into horror as he evidently read my purpose in my eyes; for my face, as well as his own, was in the full light of the bed-side candle. He uttered no sound, but lay and stared up at my face.

Had that expression of horror lingered, or had it changed to definite fear, I think I should have thrust my scalpel into the fat throat which lay exposed above the bed-clothes; but it was gone in an instant, giving place to another which strangely stayed my hand. I can describe it no more clearly than by saying it resembled that of an affectionate dog who has suddenly received an unexpected and undeserved kick from his master. It was surprised, pleading, altogether pathetic. Beneath that gaze the hand holding my blade slowly sank; and then I took a stumbling step backwards. My uncle's unblinking eyes were still fixed upon my own and, unable to bear that reproachful scrutiny, I suddenly bent forward and blew out the candle, and stumbled towards the window. As I climbed through it I heard a low, shuddering sigh from the direction of the bed.

When I regained my own room I was trembling and covered in a cold perspiration. I leant against the chest of drawers and, allowing the scalpel to slip from my grasp, wiped my clammy hands on the sides of my coat. I stood there for an appreciable interval, gathering together my scattered wits and listening intently. But not a sound came to me from the room I had left. From the death-like silence I might have supposed that the deed had been actually done, my failure and retreat no more than a dream. The thought flashed across my muddled mind that the whole thing might have been a dream. Had I really crept into that room with the deliberate intent of cutting my benefactor's throat?

But, standing there with an unaccustomed icy feeling at the back of my skull, I knew it was not a dream. My obsession had at last mastered me, and I perceived clearly that but one course was open to me—instant flight. Whether that course was dictated by my realized inability to face my uncle again, or whether I felt I was fleeing from my obsession, I do not know. But hastily and feverishly I lit my candle and began to thrust a few belongings into a leather bag which I dragged from beneath my bed. And as I fumbled I still strained my ears for any sound proceeding from my uncle's room. I expected a sudden outcry, a hammering upon my door; was my uncle too amazed, too overcome by the revelation to move? Was he supposing he had dreamed? I did not know.

Within a space of a few minutes I had packed my bag, thrust within it the scalpel which I perceived lying upon the floor, and again climbed through the window. In what must have been almost a panic I slid and scrambled down the pillar of the portico, letting the bag drop before me. And then, with one glance towards my uncle's dark window, I began to run.

The streets were quite deserted, and the eastern sky was flushing red with the promise of dawn.