Master Rochester: A Jane Eyre Serial – Chapter 11

BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

Karl and Knives

After a few weeks, my brother seemed to be repaired, and the doctor said it was safe to be near him, even though I was suspicious. Mother collected him from her friend. She had several children who had experienced the same thing and had been told it was safe to have Pierre. 

So he returned home. He did not seem any different but commented on my growth in stature. Nobody else mentioned this—not even my mother. I assumed it was my brother just adjusting to his return. He seemed to disappear into his room or spend more time with Mother.

My evening meal did not arrive when expected. I sauntered down to the kitchen, where there was a great deal of movement. More people had arrived in a serving capacity.

I watched as some talked to each other, some greeted others with hugs and laughter, and some who carried hostility toward others showed by their voices and gestures.

In the crowd of people, there was someone my height and, I assumed, age. He turned out to be German, with very little English. I pointed at myself and said “Edward”—He pointed to himself and said “Karl,” then “Ludwig.” I assumed Ludwig was another name or a middle name of his. He was about the same age as me, perhaps a little younger.

We could not converse, obviously, yet he seemed to be free with his smiles.

Pierre and I were told to have our lunch in the kitchen—the dining room was, I thought, being altered. 

After a swift meal, Pierre left quickly. He would not be persuaded to stay in the kitchen—the noise, the smells, I do not know, but something made him leave this environment. I was then told there would be entertainment. What a pity Pierre was not there, I thought.

I was told to sit on a table, and Karl-Ludwig leapt up on the table to sit next to me. He was chewing on something (I thought this was rather rude). He shuffled and looked at me as if to check that I had enough space.

At this time, I recall a nasal-sounding, disagreeable young man talking to us, sounding like he needed an audience.

He said, “There is no need to be afraid. I have seen this before. The knives are not sharp—they are blunted beyond the sight of those watching.”

The nasal-sounding man was then joined by another who shook my hand and bowed. He introduced himself as Tobias and spoke enthusiastically about his homeland, Moldavia, where he was an architect, so he claimed. He spoke of many changes, encouraging his work. I could not understand much of what he said, even though his English was broken—I wondered why he was here. He started to talk of a friend who arrived by boat in Whitby, then he became distracted, looked around, and stopped talking about that.

Yet eventually he spoke about the knives that would be used. As far as I could tell, they would not be using table or kitchen knives. Tobias began to talk about “tornee” knives—whatever they are—when a woman walked up to him with her hands on her hips and shouted at him. She stormed off, and Tobias looked at the nasal man.

Then there was a huge smashing noise from the kitchen, and Tobias rushed to see what had happened. A short time later, he emerged, hand in hand with the flush-faced woman who had shouted at him only a short time before. She looked completely different—her demeanour had changed, and she even laughed.

Then a space was cleared for a man—a member of staff who bowed to his surrounding audience and began to wield knives which he took from his pockets and showed the crowd. Then he juggled with the knives, higher and higher they went until the proximity to the ceiling ceased their climb. He stopped to tumultuous applause.

He then took out a blindfold, which he showed to the audience and then donned. He resumed juggling and finished to more applause.

Another man stood, and they smiled and bowed to each other.

Then they began to juggle and throw the knives at each other. The smiles did not leave their faces. As the juggling continued, the assembled crowd began to cheer and applaud. One woman began to sing, and the singing spread quickly.

The two men continued juggling, and there was a noise from Karl’s direction, a bang.

This noise must have distracted at least one juggler, whose fingers speedily started bleeding, and so the juggling stopped.

I heard a female scream as I was ushered out and upstairs. As I left, I saw Karl lying on the table.

I later heard that it was indeed Karl who had fallen backwards and his head had made that terrifying noise. His father was one of the jugglers whose hand was bleeding. He was shocked and disappointed to have been disturbed like this. He stormed out and spat on Karl as he left. 

Karl had died, his heart had stopped, so said the doctor who examined him. The jugglers—as far as I know—left, and Karl’s body was removed.

Karl says in my mind because of his smile.

I thought, think, nobody ever smiled at me before. Not my parents, thinking about it, not even Pierre. My mother (or at least she whom I knew as my mother) must have smiled at me, but I could not remember it. She seemed to look at Pierre with love and smiles, but not at me. 

The staff occasionally smiled towards me, but in deference or politeness—even fear of what would happen if they misstepped. Even my tutors or people brought in to perform a service— priests, delivery people—no smiles for me. John often smiled, but to himself, as if acknowledging a job well done.

I began to wonder if Karl smiled at me for anything but politeness. I wonder if he ever smiled at his father, who spat on him. Or his father at him.

Looking at the books in the library, my favourite books were always the ones with pictures and illustrations. The paintings in them never showed smiling people. Just dead-eyed, dull looks or looks that were searching for something or someone. Even religious pictures—Jesus or God never smiled at me.

So that really affected me more than the discovery that the woman I thought was my mother was not so. Nobody smiled at me.

My father arrived in the evening of the day that Karl passed. He did not seem to want to see me. Pierre ran to him, and his father picked him up. Still, there were no smiles from him. I wondered if he greeted his Spanish family with more warmth and smiles. I could not imagine my father with a smile on his face—I only recall seeing him smile once, when he was moodful.

I was encouraged to go to bed early as it would be a “busy day” tomorrow. There was much running around by the staff downstairs.

Sleep did not come easily to me that night, but I do recall a dream I had.

I dreamed of Karl, and he was dancing in snow, strangely. He was talking to someone else I could not see. He then threw me a knife, which I used to stab someone—not my father but a man dressed in black. There was then a carpet of flowers where there had been snow. I recall Karl offering me a blanket to keep me warm with a smile on his face.

I woke with a start, and there were footsteps on the corridor outside my door, presumably caused by the feet of servants. They must have awoken me. How odd, I thought.