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.
Peruke
After that meal, my father seemed to be more distant, if that was possible.
The morning after the meal must have been a Sunday, as on Sundays there was often a military presence. I saw many people I did not recognise, many dressed in or carrying military attire. They were worse for the wear, stumbling, shaking, and holding their heads.
On that particular Sunday, I remember there sat an illustrious military general who had a large military retinue that stayed in the beds downstairs after the meal. They must have changed into their military garb that morning. Many must have slept in the many rooms downstairs.
I will never forget that one man in the general’s retinue—seated very close to him—wore the most horrific incongruous hairpiece. I say incongruous because it was dark like a young man’s hair, and as the breakfast progressed, it seemed to slide and tip across and down his head.
Some servants arrived to collect the used plates. I remember one blonde waitress (whom I had never seen before) standing near him, pointing at him and shouting, “Peruke!”
She bellowed out the loudest screeching laugh. Her shrill cackle got louder, as if she were inebriated. She was quickly bundled away. One could hear her laugh at what must have been a great distance. The laughter was then abruptly stopped. I never saw her again.
Around that time, everyone—not just the military—was enthralled with war and talk of war. Napoleon was talked about like he was a god, positively or negatively; the local militia became part of the whole military picture, especially the ones I saw. I thought—and still think to some measure—what an incredible, powerful man. Noble even. He was certainly never ignored.
It must have been around this time I remember being on horseback—or should I say ponyback—in a windy field and listening to a man with a thick accent—I assume he was French—hallowing Napoleon’s achievements when he was young. He was then taken away swiftly by a small gig as he smiled and waved. The small audience he had was also smiling when he speedily left. They were smiling. I was concerned.
This event was memorable because I was never allowed to climb on or ride a pony or horse without accompaniment. I could ride in circles but never too fast and tethered to at least a stable hand.
Personally, I had no interest in fighting, and it was not just cowardice or Christianity. Inexperienced, I was taken to a large house with a large dining room—all candles and glass. I had new clothes, and I recall my feet hurting intolerably in new shoes.
My father insisted on sitting with the carriage driver and directing the journey; no friendly words were exchanged here.
The carriage stopped, and my father climbed down and looked me straight in the eye, which must have involved some crouching on his part; his movement was fearful for me. I flinched at him being so close; then he told me I must be as polite as I could with the man I was to meet—he was extremely important to the war, and only ask him “measured and sensible” questions if compelled to. I nodded in fear. One of my father’s men was compelled to carry me on his shoulders as I complained that my feet hurt so badly.
My father went to talk with some others in the annex of the house, and I heard echoing laughter after he went away from me.
I was left shaken by my father’s words—I think the first words I had heard from him since the sojourn in Spain.
In the house, I recall the pungent smell of what I assumed was wood polish. Indeed, I am taken there in my mind whenever I smell such woodwork and its treatment—most recently in our library.
In the long, lonely wait to see him, I wondered of what he would speak. The only question which I could conjure was why the soldiers’ uniforms were so easy to target, being red.
Having nothing else to do, I let myself think of everything I had witnessed. I could not remove the woman from Cadiz from my mind. Nor the kiss she gave to my father’s mouth. It all still made me shake my head.
I had not spoken to anybody about it, not even my valet John. I certainly could not discuss it with my younger brother. Or mother, obviously. So I ended up talking to God. My father, it seemed, had broken or made a joke of God’s expectations. How could God allow this to happen? It makes one think of other examples of injustice.
Is not the Bible against polygamy? I know that the Bible shows Kings with many wives. So God allows it but does not approve? Surely what my father did goes against the Christian marriage service—about one man being with one woman and all that. Jesus is all about love and forgiveness. I do not think that I am. My father must have known about polygamy.
I did not think my father was capable of perpetrating evil. Perhaps I was wrong about him. Yet the child and the mother in Cadiz, even though I distrusted and disliked them, seemed good enough.
A priest who regularly visited Thornfield would have been of little help. He only spoke in general of Biblical truths. I did not dare to speak to him about the matter that concerned me or indeed to challenge him about his insipid generalisations. One could tell he had no personal experience.
I thought long and hard about these problems. For some reason, I kept thinking of the woman and child my father left behind. Did they expect to see him again? How regularly did they see him? What did she understand about the religious danger? Obviously I could not ask her—or indeed anybody.
I did not know how to think of such things. Was I too young? I did not know if this was a common occurrence. Was this the nature of adulthood? If so, I wanted no part of it. Adults became even less trustworthy.
All these thoughts became my lot.
I was woken from my reverie by the door, which opened with a creak, and a male servant pointed to where I should stand. It looked like a dining room; the man I was supposed to meet was the sole occupant of the room and had his back to me. An open book was near his left hand, and I thought it best not to disturb a reading man. Again, time seemed to pass slowly.
After a while, I chose to sit down, and I did so as quietly as I could. Again, time passed very slowly.
I was only accompanied by a loud clock. I recall my mother’s dislike of ticking clocks: she said that each tick of the clock was like a step towards the grave.
The clock seemed to get slower. Then I heard a very light whistling, then a huge stentorian snore from the figure seated near me. He seemed to wake himself up. I had no idea he was asleep. So after a brief spell where he seemed to confirm where he was, he looked around and briefly at me, then staggered out of the room. After a few minutes, I took leave of the room and, sitting myself down, waited for my father.
On the way home, he chose to ride in the carriage next to me. He seemed very irritated with me when he asked me over and over in a more and more severe voice about it, and I could not answer his questions. I was ashamed not to be able to answer him, but in a way pleased to frustrate him so. I must have fallen asleep soon after, for my next memory was of leaving the coach alone. It was extremely dark, and it started to rain again. I clambered up the stairs of my home with aching feet.
Later, John told me that the man who slept was the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord St Vincent. What a mess I had made of things was my initial thought. Then I thought, what did I do wrong? I was cast into an adult arena, not much older than a child myself. Was I worried about displeasing my father?
I loved a hymn when I was younger. It was often played in church—indeed, at one point my young mind thought this was the only hymn the organist knew how to play. The words were:
He who would valiant be
‘gainst all disaster,
let him in constancy
follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement
shall make him once relent
his first avowed intent
to be a pilgrim.
Who so beset him round
with dismal stories
do but themselves confound
his strength the more is.
No foes shall stay his might;
though he with giants fight,
he will make good his right
to be a pilgrim.
Since, Lord, thou dost defend
us with thy Spirit,
We know we at the end,
shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away!
I’ll fear not what men say,
I’ll labor night and day
to be a pilgrim.
I especially liked the thought of me being “valiant” and a “pilgrim” even though I did not fully comprehend the meaning of the words at the time.
When very young, I loved the line “though he with giants fight.” This brought to mind fables and childhood tales of fighting with mythical giants—in later years, I understood that there were real, terrifying giants in the adult world. One lived nearby under my very roof.
Could one use the word “valiant” to describe a person who disliked, even hated, their father?
There was a military meal. Again, it was candle-lit, and soldiers were dressed in red. I was allowed to attend, which I think now, because my father had a military future in mind for me.
Musicians were there—rather, soldiers who could play had brought their instruments. I had only ever seen soldiers watching as they played. Perhaps that is why they looked so uncomfortable.
My father talked to a general on his right side.
Many musicians played. I recognised them playing what I learned was a modern song “The Son of God goes forth to war…” but little else.
At one point, a violinist took to the centre and played to my amazement, “He who would would valiant be…” and many of the soldiers, their tongues loosened by glasses of wine, sang along.
The violinist then played music I had never heard before, appearing to play two tunes at the same time. Wonderful, but my father just kept talking. I assumed he was conducting his business talk, completely ignoring the deft genius nearby.
After the meal, I told John, as he laid out the night attire, that I wished I had lessons in such instruments. He said he used to play a penny whistle, which he learned from his father.
A few weeks later, my father not being present, I was invited to an event in the kitchen. It was in the evening, and the kitchen seemed unusually quiet. John unannounced and unceremoniously stood, and some of the staff cheered. He raised his whistle and played astonishingly quickly. I assumed he played songs popular in public houses as I had never heard them, but some members of staff received the music rapturously.
Then another man stood and showed his adoring audience what I later learned was his zither. He played it beautifully and even moved some of his audience to tears.
Then he and John played together. It left me speechless. It was as if they had been playing together forever, and the percussive loveliness of the zither matched the playfulness of the whistle perfectly. I was amazed.
The player of the zither smiled tenderly as he put his instrument away as if he were hiding, holding, and carrying a baby. John quickly put his whistle away and patted his receiving pocket as if he was letting his whistle know it was safe and protected now.
John called me “son” in an informal, casual way, I knew. I wished he were my father.
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