street towards the entrance to the Tube. “I’ve always liked what you write, Dora—your letters are wonderful, and your essays and stories. Someday you’ll be published, I know. Only, I wonder, if you do get the job, what will Mr. James think of another writer in his room?”
“I would never tell him. I could never tell him. I imagine he will think I really don’t know very much, that I’m only a girl who happens to be there to be the extension for his hands. I don’t think I would want him to know much about me, about what I do know. That will be my secret.”
“How can you keep yourself secret? You’re so obviously intelligent and capable.”
“But you see, I wonder if he would want anyone for his amanuensis who was too smart, too able. My father used to say that I should hide what I think, that men never like it when a woman seems to know too much. Besides, it will be easy for me to be quiet with Mr. James. I probably will not be able even to speak around him for days.”
3
“What Maisie Knew”
November 1907
No themes are so human as those that reflect for us, out of the confusion of life, the close connexion of bliss and bale, of the things that help with the things that hurt . . .
—Henry James
Preface to “What Maisie Knew” The New York Edition, volume 11
When I began with Mr. James, I was not much of a typist, and I wonder whether that fact altered his method somewhat. With the others, the experienced Miss Weld, the very fast Mr. McAlpine, Mr. James apparently still worked out everything—every plot twist, even his layers and layers of language—in his notes based on jottings of initial inspirations in his note-books before he began dictation. With Miss Weld, Mr. James was working on the later novels; surely he must have prepared voluminous notes in addition to the note-books I had caught sight of when he used them to help him remember certain details of past compositions. The note-books were always stacked about the room when we were working on the prefaces.
I always imagined the note-books to be filled with treasures, helpful techniques, and startling inspirations waiting for some ambitious young writer to find later. Perhaps I hoped it would be myself, for I was such an ambitious young writer. I had been writing for years, had even seen my essays in print in the weekly paper, but only in our little Uplyme, not down in Lyme Regis. I had tried stories and poems, even some plays, which we put on for the local children. I liked the feeling of seeing my words printed out and having my friends tell me how much they enjoyed my writing. Now, I was going to have the chance to learn more, right from Mr. James himself. But of course I certainly would not let Mr. James know anything about my own literary aspirations.
Mr. James always spoke of his past amanuenses with affection and a little condescension. He was humourous and kind, but it was clear to him that they had never had the slightest idea what he was about, nor did he want them to. It was better, he explained, to have this blank wall echoing back his words exactly as he spoke them. He often told the story of the young woman typist who, sitting in for the ailing Miss Weld, apparently was uncomfortable with Mr. James’ long, thoughtful pauses (which could become excruciatingly long when he was struggling to find the right word). She became so concerned for the poor man’s agony that she made the shocking mistake of trying to help by suggesting a word to solve his dilemma.
No, it was a blank object, not a person, whom Mr. James had expected when I first came to be his amanuensis, and so I made the effort to become a null, a nothing.
How does one become a null? I think Miss Weld could do it because she had her whole other life away from Lamb House, away from writing altogether. Years later, after I was comfortably settled in Rye, I often met her friends, who told me of Miss Weld’s charming tea parties, her generosity to St. Michael’s Ladies’ Guild, her wonderful knitted garments distributed to the deserving poor, and the triumph of her happy marriage to the local young worthy who had been fortunate enough to win her over—a solicitor or a medical man, I’ve forgotten. It’s surprising that she and I never met over the years, but perhaps it’s that we were part of two very different circles of friends, even in tiny little Rye’s society.
When I left my old friends behind in Chelsea to go to Rye and Mr. James, I still had my whole life’s work before me to figure out. Perhaps in my inexperience I was something of a null, but I had ambition, I felt pain, I had dreams. I knew I wanted to write, and I believed that working with Mr. James might help me become a writer. I came to listen, pay attention, be involved with his work and, by that labour, take to myself something of his methods and inspiration, which might be helpful to me in my own struggle.
I wonder what he saw in me those first days. When did he first suspect that I was not another sweet, smart, pliable Miss Weld (only taller) but some other order of young woman altogether? Oh, he was so observant. I’m sure he knew from our first interview that I was different—How could he not see? It was not simply my height, for I was always the tallest of any group of girls. No, everything about me was the opposite of the “dear girls” I was expected to resemble, with their sweet faces, dimples, soft and agreeable smiles, tender and delicate voices, quiet manners, graceful movements—Oh, no, I was much more than tall.
I was strong, with good shoulders (from my days of championship matches in tennis and cricket) and good, strong legs (I could bicycle steadily the mile and a half up the hill from Lyme to Uplyme without breathing heavily). Of course, my usual complexion was brown and shiny from some outdoor escapade, my hair would never stay neatly up, and I wore no jewellery or ribbons or powder. I was a plain, solid, practical girl and proud of my strong, boyish ways. I think I would have been glad for him to see all that, but not my ambition. No, that I tried to hide for a long time.
At first, Mr. James went very slowly, word by word, from his elaborately written notes. He usually paced back and forth, never looking my way, especially for those first weeks. But one morning I noticed our relationship undergoing a change as we were working with the novella “What Maisie Knew,” that heartbreaking story of a tender, young girl. I remember that I was uncomfortable with his discomfort. He kept looking at me—what was he thinking, imagining? Now, when I look back over my old copies of the prefaces, re-read the words, I can almost hear his voice.
That day had begun rather badly. When I first arrived, the house was in turmoil. The housekeeper met me at the door, saying, “Mr. James is not ready, he will not be ready for you for quite some time—” and then she was interrupted by a frantic Burgess, the valet, hurrying through the front hall, rushing past me, still in his shirt-sleeves, his thin arms and legs flying, shouting back over his shoulder to an invisible Mr. James, apparently not yet downstairs, “I’ll get him back for you, sir, the little monster,” and then Burgess was past me, out through the still-open front door.
Maximillian, Mr. James’ precious little long-haired dachshund, terribly quick for all his short legs and round belly, had got loose again. Then Mr. James appeared, buttoning his waistcoat, his tie flapping loose. “Miss Bosanquet, I am so sorry, there’s been a terrible tragedy, our little Maximillian has escaped again, and it takes at least two of us to corner him.”
Mrs. Paddington handed him the leash, and he started past me.
“Shall I come too?” I found myself saying to my surprise. “I used to be good at catching my father’s little dog when she got out.”
Mr. James spoke over his shoulder, “Yes, come on, then. You take Church Street, Burgess usually goes up by the Wall, and I’ll take the lower regions,” and off he went breathlessly calling out for Maximillian.
I tried to imagine
