As I read...
1890
I
Feathers, that’s all I can think of when glancing upwards. Lots and lots of feathers: from dull browns and greens to exotic blues and oranges, moulding and striking like some abstract painting.
Below this sea of colour, a water of people, luminously dressed, as the decorations on their hats; Masses of women, with their vast skirts held by crinolines or hoops; everything free from coal dust; arms decorated with rubies and diamonds, sending ghosts of rainbow over wooden structure of the bookstore. Then the gentlemen, in their well-tailored overcoats, fancy top hats and golden watches, ticking away with precious time.
All of them having a thing in common, a book in hand: Clad in different cover, from varying dates, multiple editions some with golden lettering or additional pre-word, but the same title and unchanging author.
Another Madame comes, slapping another tome on the table, eagerly waiting for me, the author, to sign. And I do, the quill moves just under the title, and about above my name: Fitzroy Augustus Dewman.
Woman grasps the volume and in quick tempo leaves the path so that the other can come.
And like a grandfather clock, I tick and I tock, and sign and sign book after book, name after name. It starts to resemble an endless string of information repeating and blurring in eyes. Then the soulless words of regards “That was an amazing read”, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”, “It got me from the first page, sir.” Those too, lost their meaning, and became a part of that tedious monotony.
This awful reeking of Jean Marie Farina’s Eau de Cologne didn’t help, it reminded me too much of my mother. Another book and another signature, accompanied by the annoying rattle of the jewellery. No wonder why, to be a literate you need to run a factory, own company; and to bring a book to sign, is also a pleasure that can only be inherited by wealth.
I am waiting for another volume to slam on the mahogany, but it does so with delay. My eyes jerk upwards and I myself almost fall from the chair that encloses me a little bit too tight.
In this sea of rich colours, sways a grey mouse of a woman. Thin as a line, bleak as if washed by bleach, fingers maimed by threads and tailoring, blacked eye from a recent fight. She has no novel in her hands and stares at me as if I were a prophet, soundless from shock.
She has to blink few times to ease the bizarreness of the situation, and as she speaks it brings back the memories of Anna.
“Sir, you’re the author sir.” A workwoman stammers, carefully coming closer, minding each step, like she was walking on the edge of a cliff.
“And you’re who?” I ask.
She shakes her head and then slams her palms on the edges of my desk. Glaring at me, eyes full of pain, just like Lysander when he was about to hung.
“I haven’t got the book, sir.” The workwoman hiccups. “Malaise was reading it shush-shush during work. And I’ve got Daniel, my son, who’s just the same. I need your advice sir, because, you know, sir, book didn’t end, about my son; it’s like a guide for me.” Her words run quicker than thoughts, so deep were her despair. “I ran here, dear man, as soon as I heard you’re visiting London, even my boss got me-”
“Sorry, sir, I insist on you dismissing that –whore-.” Interrupts a wealthy plump of women behind her.
“For a lady of such a hierarchy I would consider the language picked, Mrs, because now it looks like this inferior has better manners than you.” I said, with a pleasant sneer on my old, tired face, rising from chair that creaked and rose with me.
Fat oaf muttered something inaudible before storming away, while thin lady almost kneeled upon seeing my full presence. I came to her and bowed so that we faced eye to eye; this gesture muted background chatter and brought sounds of disgust to light.
“Your name?”
She just responded with shook of the hand, like a mute.
“I ask for your name!” My voice rises with trained authority, as it is the only thing that would make her utter a word.
“Louise Grandland.” It is almost a weep.
“Then Mrs Grandland. Maybe I will arrange meeting tomorrow noon.” I propose, but then again, shakes and grunts are the reply.
Man in the queue turns brick-red and fumes, the women almost faint. Situation is getting tense and I know that I cannot stand here longer, something will spark. My arm encloses around that of Louise, they are thin and delicate like of a starving child. Other hand reaches for my soul mate: my annotated, dog-eared copy of my work. I push her towards the back exit, surprised that my old body is filled with such young strength and vigour.
We trudge through the stone corridors, her eyes are a wide lamps filled with pure terror. Sounds of complains dying behind, but the ghost of their echoes still haunting us. I find a loosely opened doors and barge in. It looks like a printing room; I am not an expert of printing machinery, so I am left to guesses. Tables here are covered in stacks of papers, smeared with oily ink. I pick up heavy metallic structure to lock the doors, and then check if it works.
“All right Mrs?” I ask the terrified woman. “Sorry, about the abduction.”
I don’t think the words work with her, because she moves towards the doors and pointlessly tries to jerk them open.
“Madame- Madame.”I push her backwards and she stumbles on the floor. “Sorry.”
It takes her quite a time to relax, and then she looks at me.
“Have my apology, I never ran that fast in my life.” She speaks and her true colours of voice start to break through.
“Now, Louise, can I call you that- Louise? Tell me-“a moment of hesitation, “-tell me anything you want to know.”
Louise nods frantically, her wounded fingers start to twist and twirl the hay of her hair. It takes her time to plan the words under her breath, while I think what my outrageous behaviour might spark in evening’s press. Then the exhaust flushes again and I am forced to sit on a rickety chair, or a chair-like object, hard to distinguish things in the dark.
Louise does the same; she slides down on the floor. Even when source of light is lacking, her eyes seem to illuminate with brightness. We sit in silence, with me patting the raggedy backbone of my autobiography.
“Malaise got that book, sir, your book.” She started. “Almost daily we stole a time, and in the cupboard she would open it and read- with somme difficulty- but read it. The reading had to be very hush-hush, if boss got to know, he’ll punish us, but it was such a read I think the risk was worth it.” I listened to her with head rested on my palm. “Danny was caught sneaking off, and boss forced her to plunger beneath the machines to fetch a spool! Sir, I was the most eager listener, but I too was caught and send to another mill, without Malaise.” She stopped to catch her breath, and I seriously started to consider my choice as a waste of energy and time. “As soon as I heard that you, sir, are coming to London. I ran and ran and ran and boss after me. The man punched me, but I got off, lost a shoe or two, but I am here!”
“What’s the hurry?” I shift my position.
“My son Daniel” The name spoken is wrapped in pain.
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
Finally her narrative caught my interest and I bowed closer.
“Daniel.” Louise started. “Is my third child; and I have two older, and one younger, and I know that he’s rather an oddball. I listened to Malaise as she read the book, and I felt like listening to the mirror of my life.” Mirror, I thought, rather a drastic choice of words. My life doesn’t reflect her in slightest, just look at our positions on the pedestal.
“I suppose your Daniel reminds you of my Lysander?” I ask and she shakes her head as if I just ordered to cancel her execution. Spectrum of emotions in this woman was surely extraordinary. My face stretched into something of a smile, it feels odd on my rigid features, and o such a time since I did it. In my entire lifetime I haven’t found a reader, directly of course, that really gets the message of my autobiography.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“This book is my guide. I was separated and I didn’t hear the majority of it.” Louise whimpers.
I look at my copy of the novel and back at dim outline of the sitting woman. With a sigh I raise, remove the blockage on the doors, and venture out into the corridor. It doesn’t take long to find a hanging gas lamp. I lit it when placing in the printing room. Grab back the bunk of a machine to seal the doors, so that no one can interrupt us.
Low flickering is enough to see the text.
I sit next to the workwoman with a grunt, and open my personal copy of my work. It is ripped in countless places, filled with letters, annotations in thick, blurred ink; paintings and occasional photographs. As soon as the cover lifts the black-white photograph comes into orange light. Such an overused move brings tears to my eyes as I find myself staring at me and him, in our childhood.
I am tall, with broad shoulders and polished hair; he small, with knobbly knees, those hollow eyes and a nest of the hair.
“He even looks like Daniel.” She gasps, pointing her shaking finger at my young, proud chest.
“That’s me.” I say with a chuckle, she turns around with astonishment. Oh, my handsome features destroyed by lack of footwork and a spoon too much of sugar.
“What did you thought about the ending?”
“Haven’t got to it yet, that’s why I ran.” She clutches to my arm, I consider pushing her away. My smile washes down. She doesn’t know that the story of Lysander had a tragic conclusion, hence the title: The Man Who Hung.
“Do not worry; I will pay your boss off.” I say to her, digging inside my pocket for the trusty gold-rimmed glasses, the ones that didn’t have the lenses. And now I felt like me in the pictures, older brother and a storyteller, a man who I shouldn’t be. “Here we go, dear Louise, let’s plunge into story that is your mirror, and my past.”
This autobiography is directed to my late lamented brother, because if not for him, you wouldn’t be holding this print now.
1835
I
It must’ve been something like one in the morning. It was so dark. Windows of the mansion wobbled from the oncoming wind which was just gaining power and speed, and I, cuddled in the covers and scared to death, just waited for them to die down.
Autumn was outrageous, cold and windy. It rained so much our river flooded just twice a week. No wonder why my father ordered servants to shove everything important upstairs, to my room and Bryony’s. Shapes of figures, lamps and horizontally placed furniture looked eerie in the darkness. Another gale hit and sound of windows crashing their hinges.
I took a deep breath in and tried to close eyes, ears, mind and everything. Just because something looks like a monster, it doesn’t mean it is one, this outline in the far corner is just a bookshelf, not a devil... How one can be sure?
I caught the cover, cuddled myself in it so that no one can notice I am here. If monster comes along, he will think the bed is empty and go away... I hope. How wild is our imagination when we are young? Maybe God created us so imaginative so that we can picture pain and fear, and therefore avoid it. Clever chap that God.
Then comes a sound, from downstairs, I must listen to it for a while before recognising it as a piano work. It must be the father, I assure me, he and Madame Lucia are the only pianists in the house. It is not possible for something vicious, like spring heeled jack, to play so beautifully.
I listen to the melody and flood myself in it. It is nothing like those long, and tedious ballads by Father, or the simple and off-key works by Lucia. This one sounds young, and dynamic, like nothing I had heard before. I am not a big admirer of music, but this one really suits my taste.
The melody goes up and down, irregularly as if telling a story. I imagine a rabbit; each note was his hop, running through fields. Sometimes he is carefree, chasing butterflies and peeking through holes, but when the music raises ruddy fox comes into view.
Before I know I am on my feet, carefully opening the doors. Then I am sneaking down the corridors, on tip-toes, to prevent wooden floor from the creaking.
Eyes of my ancestors scan every inch of my body, as the right wall is decorated with their pompous, great portraits. Each face is gaunt and formal, with nose reaching for the sky. On the left also framed paintings, but coming from the careful, prestigious brush of Turner, Wiertz or David.
Someone is pursuing the passage, and to my sigh comes an outline I am not yet used to. It’s our new governess Madame Tetley. Tetley has round, seemingly friendly face; set of curious, brisk eyes; and long, brown hair that are always combed. She makes an impression of friendly, but it’s just an impression.
I lurch into darker corner, aiming for invisibility.
The Governess moves down the corridor, bobbling her head and humming to the piano tune; she is holding stack of nicely folded clothes and disappears in the corner. When her footsteps are mute I continue my trudge.
To my sight comes enormous set of doors, which open way too loudly than I expected them to. I hope that our greyhounds are asleep. I hate the mutts; they are wild, quick, and keep tripping me over with their long snouts and bony legs. Just memory of them ripping pheasant into pieces like a ragdoll makes me shiver. I increase my tempo, and after two turns great doors of the hall welcome me and so does musing beating through them.
With caution and absolute silence I peek through.
The luminous play now fully hits my body, and I feel each note hitting me and encouraging to spring and to dance and to trill. The creator of this mood sits on the stool, unmoving, only his pale fingers move over black and white keys; each press causes release of another wonderful musical note. He plays with professionalism, even when being half of my age. It’s my junior brother, Lysander. His body is illuminated by white moon; his face highlighted, enlarging his hollow eyes and high cheekbones. He’s conserved and we rarely exchange words, but his current work is worth praise. I carefully move towards the pianist, to not disturb or scare. Wonder why he picked to play in the dead of the night, when there’s no one to impress.
Lysander never sat in front of the instrument, if his father did put him, he will cry or resist. He’s very stubborn, but that might wear off with age, or so my parents hope.
I am hugely impressed by his verve and talent, as I myself struggle to follow something as banal as “Twinkle Twinkle” by Taylor.
Lysander does not notice when I am just behind him, he is just so devoted to his play; my hand carefully reaches for his shoulder.
“Ah!” High-pitched yelp escapes from him, I quickly jerk my hand backwards, regretting the move. He stops with one of his fingers on black key and second hovering in air.
“Lys?” I carefully ask, then he turns around, face full of expression I’ve never seen before. A mix offer, anger, surprise, and pure confusion.
“GO AWAY! GO AWAY!” He cries so loudly I am sure everyone in the house, horrible greyhounds included, had been wakened up. “GO AWAY!”
“Lys-Lysander-listen-shush!” I wave my hands, but he pushes them away. He stands up, catches me by shirt, pushes upwards and releases, sending me down on the cold, stone floor. God, that boy might be skinny, but has strength of a bear.
“Lysander, calm yourself down!” I plead, but all he does is chant the same words, maybe even only words he knows. I clasp my hands on ears as the sounds become too irking, and sprint away to my room, eyes full of tears.
I quickly slam the glass panelled doors of the hall, sending the mosaic flowers swaying. I curl myself into a ball and sob, while Lysander still chants the same words, go away, go away, go away.
Cold hand reaches for my sleeve, I lurk upwards but the contours are blurred in my vision.
“What did you did to him?” It’s a cold, lucid voice I know, then the features take sharpening angles and I find myself staring at my blonde-haired mother, with her bony face and thin, stretched lips.
“N-nothing” but she jerks me upwards and I struggle to keep upright.
“You go to your room, back to sleep, cannot you read a clock?” She hisses, not giving me an eye, but lurking through the panelled doors.
“I can Mum.”
“Mother”
“I can mother, I just heard music and Lys was-“she turns around and stares straight at me.
“Do not talk to Lysander! God knows that –thing- might’ve a bad influence on you. He might corrupt you, that devil, and we need at least one sane.” She speaks to herself more than me. Mother looks through the mosaic, arms wrapped around her, reminding me much of the caretakers in the kitchens. She talks to herself, but I barely catch at least one.
“Mother-“I shyly interrupt when the shouts quieten.
She jumps on balls of her feet, as if forgetting I was here.
“Fitzroy, you still here, back to your bedroom!” She hisses quietly, like she was afraid that louder note might send Lysander panicking again.
“But there are shapes in my bedroom-“
“Grow up! Don’t say you turn all funny like your brother!” She blinks rapidly, grasps me by the arm and pushes towards the corridor. The clutch hurts me and I know arguing won’t get me anywhere. “And don’t talk as much to Lysander- you hear me?”
1836
I
Dewman mansion was so vast and monarchious many considered it a landmark. The land was stretching itself for miles, with bank of an unsteady river and mixed forest swarming with stags and does. Passersby considered it was haunted; maybe this comment was shed upon its grim brickwork, or maybe because of curtains shading enormous windows. The great, black, curving gates created a blockade for the lower children, peeking through the metal to get a glimpse of this imperious structure; just to be scared away by the wild greyhounds with their blank eyes and long nuzzles.
I didn’t know what others found so interesting about this place, for me it was a monotonous string of corridors and rooms, many of which were empty. This place could work well only with game of Hide and Seek, which I occasionally play with Lysander; but otherwise it was plainly boring. The dullest place of them all was my study classroom, in which that stupid lecturer, his name I still not remember, would talk and talk about stuff and more stuff.
I could’ve ventured into the forest, but thoughts about wild boars and greyhounds set me aback. Lysander finds there’s nothing wrong with them, when the weather is passable he would jump into the bushes and not return till dawn. My mother was sceptical about this initially, but after a time she begun to get used to it.
First seven years of my life were the worst. No doubt. All I did was sitting and hearing this buffoon giving his speeches, and my parents were no better, they begun sounding a little bit too repetitive: listen to the teacher; be like your father; listen to the teacher; be like father. After a while I wasn’t so sure what they actually wanted: for me to be like the father and listen to the teacher; or for me to listen to the teacher to be like father.
“Maybe both.” Lysander gestured when I explained it to him. He was the brightest spot in my life; only person that would actually listen and try to understand. There’s also Madame Tetley, governess which had proved to be the best one yet. She would give an advice, pat on the back and shed a smile with some sappy joke, but she was paid for it and sometimes you can even smell that. I also have young sister Bryony, but she’s only three and stays on the podium alongside that lecturer.
Lysander wasn’t very talkative; in fact he didn’t spoke at all, maybe he would shed a simple word or two, mostly commands; but he was great and respective listener.
“Last night-after the lesson- Mum said I would take a step further...” I explained to him. “What do you think it means?”
He shrugs. We sit down on the rooftop, overlooking forest and listening to the low hum of the river. I hear Tetley calling my name; it must me my mum, she hates when I violate all of her rules: like sitting on the rooftop, without chores in the middle of the day, and worst of all, with Lysander.
“Do you think she means I would have more free time?” I return to my question.
“I think you’ll have more additional classes.” He replies plainly.
I punch him in the shoulder with laugh, but he takes this gesture with shock and weird shaking of arms. The oddity of the situation has to quieten down before I ask another question.
“Where are you going- you know- in the woods?” I crane closer. “Is there some sort of secret playground?”
Lysander flashes a smile, but shakes his head with disapproval.
“It is quiet.” I didn’t suspect him to answer, but he did.
“In home it’s quiet too, a bit too quiet for my taste.” I explain.
“It is a different type of quiet.” Lysander adds before getting lost in his own set of thoughts.
I try to think about silence and how there can be different types of it. The quietness of the room during the sunny morning surely differs from the one in the middle of the night. Silence during the breaks in the dinner arguments varies from this natural one when I am scribbling answers while being in my classes.
“I guess it’s the birds.” I explain to myself, and then our own set of stillness is disturbed by the shouts of Madame Tetley.
She is standing in the gardens, gazing upwards at us. Not fuming, but worried.
“Fitzroy, Lysander, down now!” She says calmly. “How did you even get up there? Mother is looking for you, Fitzroy, now don’t give me those glances- get down- God, carefully- and run to her.”
I gave Lysander an apologising look before climbing down the veins on the chimney. I disliked talks with my mother in the study, but I disliked even more when she’s furious and talks with me in the study. So I ran fast like the game and found myself under her cautious eye.
II
Talking about boring; only thing that breaks my monotony are the parties, but they are more irritating than the dullest of days in the mansion.
We’ll be having visitors. Said my mother, and it is like a code name for: behave yourself, dress well, talk nice, etcetera.
I was taken onto a pedestal, had a garniture and golden buttons pinned to it as I stood unmoving. Few maids combed my hair, while others corrected loosely hanging pants. Father was talking, I listened for a while, then got jaded, and started to utter “Yes” each time he stopped giving his batch of monologue.
“Yes” to this “Yes” to that “Yes” and “Yes” to one and another.
“Are you even listening to me?” He snaps.
“Yes”
“Fitzroy- focus- this is important. My outlook, my sponsors, my reputation all linger on moments like this.”
“I know.” You’ve repeated this statement way too many times.
“Have some attitude and grown-up approach to such events; they sketch yours and my future.” He walks closer to me when the maids are done with stuffing me into gentleman clothes.
“Now that’s my boy, just look at you.” We stare together in the mirror; his face is so much like Lysander’s.
I dislike every aspect of the party: the food, the crowd, the well-read dialogues and speeches which I have now printed on my brain, the uncomfortable clothes and the fact that parents close Lysander in his room so that “He won’t give us disgrace”.
“Dad-“I ask, but no response. “Father?”
“Yes, Fitzroy.” He finally turns around.
“Is Lysander going to be on the party too?” I ask trying to sound innocent and not too demanding.
“Now- now- now, Fitzroy, it’s not a party it’s a formal luncheon.” He explains but doesn’t answer. I sigh with irritation and rephrase myself.
“Is Lysander going to attend formal luncheon with us?”
“Yes- unfortunately-“
My hopes rose and so did me with excitement.
“Sir Caster noted his absence previously; I don’t want to play this deception game for too long now-.” Father speaks to himself more than me. “Hope the governess would keep cautious eyes on him- she’s such a lulu.”
“Madame Tetley is lovely!” I correct him.
“Who?”
“Our governess!”
My father gave me a brief look before getting distracted by two maids. I stood in silence, trying to find a comfortable position in this armour of pins and needles. I did not know what my mother found “handsome” in the golden ribbons and licked hair, I think they are disgusting.
When I grow up I will understand. Does my Father enjoys the garnitures and frocks, or does he just cover his discomfort up? He was now in a feisty argument over something with the cook; I tried to catch the snippets of the row, but gave up and sneaked out when nobody was looking at me anymore. I walked like a wooden statue, and looked like polished doll; and felt like both.
Preparations for parties are almost as chaotic as parties themselves; everybody is talking and walking. Finding an empty room was a blank wish, finding a quiet room was like a heaven.
The silent room belonged to Lysander, and it wasn’t all silent; there was one maid preparing my younger brother; and brother himself standing as straight as a pole and as solid as a statue.
I moved quietly inside.
“Is he alright?” I asked his dresser. My voice shook the silence of the room and made Lysander emit something like hiccup and a yelp.
“Oh, dear, you could’ve knocked!” Said the maid, but I ignored her like my Father does. Lysander looked at spots in the ceiling, so mesmerised in them it looked like he was about to face the God.
I never walked inside his room, I realised, maybe because it was always locked. It was the same size as my room; but as white as Negro teeth. It was also strikingly clean, and awfully empty. There was nothing but bed and a window; maybe that’s why he ventures to forest on so many occasions. I also wondered why it is so clean; why do maids clean his room more than I do- and how he doesn’t get annoyed by all this white.
I hopped towards his podium and poked few times because initially he didn’t turn around.
“Is it your first party Lysander- Lys- listening? Is it your first party?” I ask him and he responds with barely visible nod. “I suppose Father and Mother thought you are old enough now.”
I walked around the stool and took notice of his dress. His fit better than mine did, he looked “graceful”, and I guess “handsome”, because combing of his untidy hair revealed set of grass-green eyes; and his face looked very formal and very grown up, thin and without this chubby fat I have.
1890
I
Feathers, that’s all I can think of when glancing upwards. Lots and lots of feathers: from dull browns and greens to exotic blues and oranges, moulding and striking like some abstract painting.
Below this sea of colour, a water of people, luminously dressed, as the decorations on their hats; Masses of women, with their vast skirts held by crinolines or hoops; everything free from coal dust; arms decorated with rubies and diamonds, sending ghosts of rainbow over wooden structure of the bookstore. Then the gentlemen, in their well-tailored overcoats, fancy top hats and golden watches, ticking away with precious time.
All of them having a thing in common, a book in hand: Clad in different cover, from varying dates, multiple editions some with golden lettering or additional pre-word, but the same title and unchanging author.
Another Madame comes, slapping another tome on the table, eagerly waiting for me, the author, to sign. And I do, the quill moves just under the title, and about above my name: Fitzroy Augustus Dewman.
Woman grasps the volume and in quick tempo leaves the path so that the other can come.
And like a grandfather clock, I tick and I tock, and sign and sign book after book, name after name. It starts to resemble an endless string of information repeating and blurring in eyes. Then the soulless words of regards “That was an amazing read”, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”, “It got me from the first page, sir.” Those too, lost their meaning, and became a part of that tedious monotony.
This awful reeking of Jean Marie Farina’s Eau de Cologne didn’t help, it reminded me too much of my mother. Another book and another signature, accompanied by the annoying rattle of the jewellery. No wonder why, to be a literate you need to run a factory, own company; and to bring a book to sign, is also a pleasure that can only be inherited by wealth.
I am waiting for another volume to slam on the mahogany, but it does so with delay. My eyes jerk upwards and I myself almost fall from the chair that encloses me a little bit too tight.
In this sea of rich colours, sways a grey mouse of a woman. Thin as a line, bleak as if washed by bleach, fingers maimed by threads and tailoring, blacked eye from a recent fight. She has no novel in her hands and stares at me as if I were a prophet, soundless from shock.
She has to blink few times to ease the bizarreness of the situation, and as she speaks it brings back the memories of Anna.
“Sir, you’re the author sir.” A workwoman stammers, carefully coming closer, minding each step, like she was walking on the edge of a cliff.
“And you’re who?” I ask.
She shakes her head and then slams her palms on the edges of my desk. Glaring at me, eyes full of pain, just like Lysander when he was about to hung.
“I haven’t got the book, sir.” The workwoman hiccups. “Malaise was reading it shush-shush during work. And I’ve got Daniel, my son, who’s just the same. I need your advice sir, because, you know, sir, book didn’t end, about my son; it’s like a guide for me.” Her words run quicker than thoughts, so deep were her despair. “I ran here, dear man, as soon as I heard you’re visiting London, even my boss got me-”
“Sorry, sir, I insist on you dismissing that –whore-.” Interrupts a wealthy plump of women behind her.
“For a lady of such a hierarchy I would consider the language picked, Mrs, because now it looks like this inferior has better manners than you.” I said, with a pleasant sneer on my old, tired face, rising from chair that creaked and rose with me.
Fat oaf muttered something inaudible before storming away, while thin lady almost kneeled upon seeing my full presence. I came to her and bowed so that we faced eye to eye; this gesture muted background chatter and brought sounds of disgust to light.
“Your name?”
She just responded with shook of the hand, like a mute.
“I ask for your name!” My voice rises with trained authority, as it is the only thing that would make her utter a word.
“Louise Grandland.” It is almost a weep.
“Then Mrs Grandland. Maybe I will arrange meeting tomorrow noon.” I propose, but then again, shakes and grunts are the reply.
Man in the queue turns brick-red and fumes, the women almost faint. Situation is getting tense and I know that I cannot stand here longer, something will spark. My arm encloses around that of Louise, they are thin and delicate like of a starving child. Other hand reaches for my soul mate: my annotated, dog-eared copy of my work. I push her towards the back exit, surprised that my old body is filled with such young strength and vigour.
We trudge through the stone corridors, her eyes are a wide lamps filled with pure terror. Sounds of complains dying behind, but the ghost of their echoes still haunting us. I find a loosely opened doors and barge in. It looks like a printing room; I am not an expert of printing machinery, so I am left to guesses. Tables here are covered in stacks of papers, smeared with oily ink. I pick up heavy metallic structure to lock the doors, and then check if it works.
“All right Mrs?” I ask the terrified woman. “Sorry, about the abduction.”
I don’t think the words work with her, because she moves towards the doors and pointlessly tries to jerk them open.
“Madame- Madame.”I push her backwards and she stumbles on the floor. “Sorry.”
It takes her quite a time to relax, and then she looks at me.
“Have my apology, I never ran that fast in my life.” She speaks and her true colours of voice start to break through.
“Now, Louise, can I call you that- Louise? Tell me-“a moment of hesitation, “-tell me anything you want to know.”
Louise nods frantically, her wounded fingers start to twist and twirl the hay of her hair. It takes her time to plan the words under her breath, while I think what my outrageous behaviour might spark in evening’s press. Then the exhaust flushes again and I am forced to sit on a rickety chair, or a chair-like object, hard to distinguish things in the dark.
Louise does the same; she slides down on the floor. Even when source of light is lacking, her eyes seem to illuminate with brightness. We sit in silence, with me patting the raggedy backbone of my autobiography.
“Malaise got that book, sir, your book.” She started. “Almost daily we stole a time, and in the cupboard she would open it and read- with somme difficulty- but read it. The reading had to be very hush-hush, if boss got to know, he’ll punish us, but it was such a read I think the risk was worth it.” I listened to her with head rested on my palm. “Danny was caught sneaking off, and boss forced her to plunger beneath the machines to fetch a spool! Sir, I was the most eager listener, but I too was caught and send to another mill, without Malaise.” She stopped to catch her breath, and I seriously started to consider my choice as a waste of energy and time. “As soon as I heard that you, sir, are coming to London. I ran and ran and ran and boss after me. The man punched me, but I got off, lost a shoe or two, but I am here!”
“What’s the hurry?” I shift my position.
“My son Daniel” The name spoken is wrapped in pain.
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
Finally her narrative caught my interest and I bowed closer.
“Daniel.” Louise started. “Is my third child; and I have two older, and one younger, and I know that he’s rather an oddball. I listened to Malaise as she read the book, and I felt like listening to the mirror of my life.” Mirror, I thought, rather a drastic choice of words. My life doesn’t reflect her in slightest, just look at our positions on the pedestal.
“I suppose your Daniel reminds you of my Lysander?” I ask and she shakes her head as if I just ordered to cancel her execution. Spectrum of emotions in this woman was surely extraordinary. My face stretched into something of a smile, it feels odd on my rigid features, and o such a time since I did it. In my entire lifetime I haven’t found a reader, directly of course, that really gets the message of my autobiography.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“This book is my guide. I was separated and I didn’t hear the majority of it.” Louise whimpers.
I look at my copy of the novel and back at dim outline of the sitting woman. With a sigh I raise, remove the blockage on the doors, and venture out into the corridor. It doesn’t take long to find a hanging gas lamp. I lit it when placing in the printing room. Grab back the bunk of a machine to seal the doors, so that no one can interrupt us.
Low flickering is enough to see the text.
I sit next to the workwoman with a grunt, and open my personal copy of my work. It is ripped in countless places, filled with letters, annotations in thick, blurred ink; paintings and occasional photographs. As soon as the cover lifts the black-white photograph comes into orange light. Such an overused move brings tears to my eyes as I find myself staring at me and him, in our childhood.
I am tall, with broad shoulders and polished hair; he small, with knobbly knees, those hollow eyes and a nest of the hair.
“He even looks like Daniel.” She gasps, pointing her shaking finger at my young, proud chest.
“That’s me.” I say with a chuckle, she turns around with astonishment. Oh, my handsome features destroyed by lack of footwork and a spoon too much of sugar.
“What did you thought about the ending?”
“Haven’t got to it yet, that’s why I ran.” She clutches to my arm, I consider pushing her away. My smile washes down. She doesn’t know that the story of Lysander had a tragic conclusion, hence the title: The Man Who Hung.
“Do not worry; I will pay your boss off.” I say to her, digging inside my pocket for the trusty gold-rimmed glasses, the ones that didn’t have the lenses. And now I felt like me in the pictures, older brother and a storyteller, a man who I shouldn’t be. “Here we go, dear Louise, let’s plunge into story that is your mirror, and my past.”
This autobiography is directed to my late lamented brother, because if not for him, you wouldn’t be holding this print now.
1835
I
It must’ve been something like one in the morning. It was so dark. Windows of the mansion wobbled from the oncoming wind which was just gaining power and speed, and I, cuddled in the covers and scared to death, just waited for them to die down.
Autumn was outrageous, cold and windy. It rained so much our river flooded just twice a week. No wonder why my father ordered servants to shove everything important upstairs, to my room and Bryony’s. Shapes of figures, lamps and horizontally placed furniture looked eerie in the darkness. Another gale hit and sound of windows crashing their hinges.
I took a deep breath in and tried to close eyes, ears, mind and everything. Just because something looks like a monster, it doesn’t mean it is one, this outline in the far corner is just a bookshelf, not a devil... How one can be sure?
I caught the cover, cuddled myself in it so that no one can notice I am here. If monster comes along, he will think the bed is empty and go away... I hope. How wild is our imagination when we are young? Maybe God created us so imaginative so that we can picture pain and fear, and therefore avoid it. Clever chap that God.
Then comes a sound, from downstairs, I must listen to it for a while before recognising it as a piano work. It must be the father, I assure me, he and Madame Lucia are the only pianists in the house. It is not possible for something vicious, like spring heeled jack, to play so beautifully.
I listen to the melody and flood myself in it. It is nothing like those long, and tedious ballads by Father, or the simple and off-key works by Lucia. This one sounds young, and dynamic, like nothing I had heard before. I am not a big admirer of music, but this one really suits my taste.
The melody goes up and down, irregularly as if telling a story. I imagine a rabbit; each note was his hop, running through fields. Sometimes he is carefree, chasing butterflies and peeking through holes, but when the music raises ruddy fox comes into view.
Before I know I am on my feet, carefully opening the doors. Then I am sneaking down the corridors, on tip-toes, to prevent wooden floor from the creaking.
Eyes of my ancestors scan every inch of my body, as the right wall is decorated with their pompous, great portraits. Each face is gaunt and formal, with nose reaching for the sky. On the left also framed paintings, but coming from the careful, prestigious brush of Turner, Wiertz or David.
Someone is pursuing the passage, and to my sigh comes an outline I am not yet used to. It’s our new governess Madame Tetley. Tetley has round, seemingly friendly face; set of curious, brisk eyes; and long, brown hair that are always combed. She makes an impression of friendly, but it’s just an impression.
I lurch into darker corner, aiming for invisibility.
The Governess moves down the corridor, bobbling her head and humming to the piano tune; she is holding stack of nicely folded clothes and disappears in the corner. When her footsteps are mute I continue my trudge.
To my sight comes enormous set of doors, which open way too loudly than I expected them to. I hope that our greyhounds are asleep. I hate the mutts; they are wild, quick, and keep tripping me over with their long snouts and bony legs. Just memory of them ripping pheasant into pieces like a ragdoll makes me shiver. I increase my tempo, and after two turns great doors of the hall welcome me and so does musing beating through them.
With caution and absolute silence I peek through.
The luminous play now fully hits my body, and I feel each note hitting me and encouraging to spring and to dance and to trill. The creator of this mood sits on the stool, unmoving, only his pale fingers move over black and white keys; each press causes release of another wonderful musical note. He plays with professionalism, even when being half of my age. It’s my junior brother, Lysander. His body is illuminated by white moon; his face highlighted, enlarging his hollow eyes and high cheekbones. He’s conserved and we rarely exchange words, but his current work is worth praise. I carefully move towards the pianist, to not disturb or scare. Wonder why he picked to play in the dead of the night, when there’s no one to impress.
Lysander never sat in front of the instrument, if his father did put him, he will cry or resist. He’s very stubborn, but that might wear off with age, or so my parents hope.
I am hugely impressed by his verve and talent, as I myself struggle to follow something as banal as “Twinkle Twinkle” by Taylor.
Lysander does not notice when I am just behind him, he is just so devoted to his play; my hand carefully reaches for his shoulder.
“Ah!” High-pitched yelp escapes from him, I quickly jerk my hand backwards, regretting the move. He stops with one of his fingers on black key and second hovering in air.
“Lys?” I carefully ask, then he turns around, face full of expression I’ve never seen before. A mix offer, anger, surprise, and pure confusion.
“GO AWAY! GO AWAY!” He cries so loudly I am sure everyone in the house, horrible greyhounds included, had been wakened up. “GO AWAY!”
“Lys-Lysander-listen-shush!” I wave my hands, but he pushes them away. He stands up, catches me by shirt, pushes upwards and releases, sending me down on the cold, stone floor. God, that boy might be skinny, but has strength of a bear.
“Lysander, calm yourself down!” I plead, but all he does is chant the same words, maybe even only words he knows. I clasp my hands on ears as the sounds become too irking, and sprint away to my room, eyes full of tears.
I quickly slam the glass panelled doors of the hall, sending the mosaic flowers swaying. I curl myself into a ball and sob, while Lysander still chants the same words, go away, go away, go away.
Cold hand reaches for my sleeve, I lurk upwards but the contours are blurred in my vision.
“What did you did to him?” It’s a cold, lucid voice I know, then the features take sharpening angles and I find myself staring at my blonde-haired mother, with her bony face and thin, stretched lips.
“N-nothing” but she jerks me upwards and I struggle to keep upright.
“You go to your room, back to sleep, cannot you read a clock?” She hisses, not giving me an eye, but lurking through the panelled doors.
“I can Mum.”
“Mother”
“I can mother, I just heard music and Lys was-“she turns around and stares straight at me.
“Do not talk to Lysander! God knows that –thing- might’ve a bad influence on you. He might corrupt you, that devil, and we need at least one sane.” She speaks to herself more than me. Mother looks through the mosaic, arms wrapped around her, reminding me much of the caretakers in the kitchens. She talks to herself, but I barely catch at least one.
“Mother-“I shyly interrupt when the shouts quieten.
She jumps on balls of her feet, as if forgetting I was here.
“Fitzroy, you still here, back to your bedroom!” She hisses quietly, like she was afraid that louder note might send Lysander panicking again.
“But there are shapes in my bedroom-“
“Grow up! Don’t say you turn all funny like your brother!” She blinks rapidly, grasps me by the arm and pushes towards the corridor. The clutch hurts me and I know arguing won’t get me anywhere. “And don’t talk as much to Lysander- you hear me?”
1836
I
Dewman mansion was so vast and monarchious many considered it a landmark. The land was stretching itself for miles, with bank of an unsteady river and mixed forest swarming with stags and does. Passersby considered it was haunted; maybe this comment was shed upon its grim brickwork, or maybe because of curtains shading enormous windows. The great, black, curving gates created a blockade for the lower children, peeking through the metal to get a glimpse of this imperious structure; just to be scared away by the wild greyhounds with their blank eyes and long nuzzles.
I didn’t know what others found so interesting about this place, for me it was a monotonous string of corridors and rooms, many of which were empty. This place could work well only with game of Hide and Seek, which I occasionally play with Lysander; but otherwise it was plainly boring. The dullest place of them all was my study classroom, in which that stupid lecturer, his name I still not remember, would talk and talk about stuff and more stuff.
I could’ve ventured into the forest, but thoughts about wild boars and greyhounds set me aback. Lysander finds there’s nothing wrong with them, when the weather is passable he would jump into the bushes and not return till dawn. My mother was sceptical about this initially, but after a time she begun to get used to it.
First seven years of my life were the worst. No doubt. All I did was sitting and hearing this buffoon giving his speeches, and my parents were no better, they begun sounding a little bit too repetitive: listen to the teacher; be like your father; listen to the teacher; be like father. After a while I wasn’t so sure what they actually wanted: for me to be like the father and listen to the teacher; or for me to listen to the teacher to be like father.
“Maybe both.” Lysander gestured when I explained it to him. He was the brightest spot in my life; only person that would actually listen and try to understand. There’s also Madame Tetley, governess which had proved to be the best one yet. She would give an advice, pat on the back and shed a smile with some sappy joke, but she was paid for it and sometimes you can even smell that. I also have young sister Bryony, but she’s only three and stays on the podium alongside that lecturer.
Lysander wasn’t very talkative; in fact he didn’t spoke at all, maybe he would shed a simple word or two, mostly commands; but he was great and respective listener.
“Last night-after the lesson- Mum said I would take a step further...” I explained to him. “What do you think it means?”
He shrugs. We sit down on the rooftop, overlooking forest and listening to the low hum of the river. I hear Tetley calling my name; it must me my mum, she hates when I violate all of her rules: like sitting on the rooftop, without chores in the middle of the day, and worst of all, with Lysander.
“Do you think she means I would have more free time?” I return to my question.
“I think you’ll have more additional classes.” He replies plainly.
I punch him in the shoulder with laugh, but he takes this gesture with shock and weird shaking of arms. The oddity of the situation has to quieten down before I ask another question.
“Where are you going- you know- in the woods?” I crane closer. “Is there some sort of secret playground?”
Lysander flashes a smile, but shakes his head with disapproval.
“It is quiet.” I didn’t suspect him to answer, but he did.
“In home it’s quiet too, a bit too quiet for my taste.” I explain.
“It is a different type of quiet.” Lysander adds before getting lost in his own set of thoughts.
I try to think about silence and how there can be different types of it. The quietness of the room during the sunny morning surely differs from the one in the middle of the night. Silence during the breaks in the dinner arguments varies from this natural one when I am scribbling answers while being in my classes.
“I guess it’s the birds.” I explain to myself, and then our own set of stillness is disturbed by the shouts of Madame Tetley.
She is standing in the gardens, gazing upwards at us. Not fuming, but worried.
“Fitzroy, Lysander, down now!” She says calmly. “How did you even get up there? Mother is looking for you, Fitzroy, now don’t give me those glances- get down- God, carefully- and run to her.”
I gave Lysander an apologising look before climbing down the veins on the chimney. I disliked talks with my mother in the study, but I disliked even more when she’s furious and talks with me in the study. So I ran fast like the game and found myself under her cautious eye.
II
Talking about boring; only thing that breaks my monotony are the parties, but they are more irritating than the dullest of days in the mansion.
We’ll be having visitors. Said my mother, and it is like a code name for: behave yourself, dress well, talk nice, etcetera.
I was taken onto a pedestal, had a garniture and golden buttons pinned to it as I stood unmoving. Few maids combed my hair, while others corrected loosely hanging pants. Father was talking, I listened for a while, then got jaded, and started to utter “Yes” each time he stopped giving his batch of monologue.
“Yes” to this “Yes” to that “Yes” and “Yes” to one and another.
“Are you even listening to me?” He snaps.
“Yes”
“Fitzroy- focus- this is important. My outlook, my sponsors, my reputation all linger on moments like this.”
“I know.” You’ve repeated this statement way too many times.
“Have some attitude and grown-up approach to such events; they sketch yours and my future.” He walks closer to me when the maids are done with stuffing me into gentleman clothes.
“Now that’s my boy, just look at you.” We stare together in the mirror; his face is so much like Lysander’s.
I dislike every aspect of the party: the food, the crowd, the well-read dialogues and speeches which I have now printed on my brain, the uncomfortable clothes and the fact that parents close Lysander in his room so that “He won’t give us disgrace”.
“Dad-“I ask, but no response. “Father?”
“Yes, Fitzroy.” He finally turns around.
“Is Lysander going to be on the party too?” I ask trying to sound innocent and not too demanding.
“Now- now- now, Fitzroy, it’s not a party it’s a formal luncheon.” He explains but doesn’t answer. I sigh with irritation and rephrase myself.
“Is Lysander going to attend formal luncheon with us?”
“Yes- unfortunately-“
My hopes rose and so did me with excitement.
“Sir Caster noted his absence previously; I don’t want to play this deception game for too long now-.” Father speaks to himself more than me. “Hope the governess would keep cautious eyes on him- she’s such a lulu.”
“Madame Tetley is lovely!” I correct him.
“Who?”
“Our governess!”
My father gave me a brief look before getting distracted by two maids. I stood in silence, trying to find a comfortable position in this armour of pins and needles. I did not know what my mother found “handsome” in the golden ribbons and licked hair, I think they are disgusting.
When I grow up I will understand. Does my Father enjoys the garnitures and frocks, or does he just cover his discomfort up? He was now in a feisty argument over something with the cook; I tried to catch the snippets of the row, but gave up and sneaked out when nobody was looking at me anymore. I walked like a wooden statue, and looked like polished doll; and felt like both.
Preparations for parties are almost as chaotic as parties themselves; everybody is talking and walking. Finding an empty room was a blank wish, finding a quiet room was like a heaven.
The silent room belonged to Lysander, and it wasn’t all silent; there was one maid preparing my younger brother; and brother himself standing as straight as a pole and as solid as a statue.
I moved quietly inside.
“Is he alright?” I asked his dresser. My voice shook the silence of the room and made Lysander emit something like hiccup and a yelp.
“Oh, dear, you could’ve knocked!” Said the maid, but I ignored her like my Father does. Lysander looked at spots in the ceiling, so mesmerised in them it looked like he was about to face the God.
I never walked inside his room, I realised, maybe because it was always locked. It was the same size as my room; but as white as Negro teeth. It was also strikingly clean, and awfully empty. There was nothing but bed and a window; maybe that’s why he ventures to forest on so many occasions. I also wondered why it is so clean; why do maids clean his room more than I do- and how he doesn’t get annoyed by all this white.
I hopped towards his podium and poked few times because initially he didn’t turn around.
“Is it your first party Lysander- Lys- listening? Is it your first party?” I ask him and he responds with barely visible nod. “I suppose Father and Mother thought you are old enough now.”
I walked around the stool and took notice of his dress. His fit better than mine did, he looked “graceful”, and I guess “handsome”, because combing of his untidy hair revealed set of grass-green eyes; and his face looked very formal and very grown up, thin and without this chubby fat I have.