I wasn’t cut from the same cloth as my father. In fact, it frequently appeared we had hailed from entirely different worlds. Where he was an expensive, expertly woven tweed of rich taupe and dark browns, I was more like a lightweight silk in shades of deep vivid greens and blues. Not to say I lacked integrity, or even masculinity, I hoped. I simply wasn’t born with stoicism, or a definitive calling in life, as he. I didn’t have the yearning to be known as the greatest, the most accomplished, or the most important; neither did I wish to dedicate a large chunk of my adult life to studying other people’s achievements.
It wasn’t that I was incapable, or unintelligent, or at least my preference was not to see it so, it was that I simply couldn’t absorb or apply myself to that which didn’t fascinate me. I needed to be captivated and gripped by that which garnered my full attention, I wanted to be seduced by a subject and courted by its inspiring depths.
I was far more like my mother, from whom my imagination and artistry were passed. My mother had been born in Russia and, came over to England in 1881, as did the other luckier ones in her community. She was unlike many in that she was a notable beauty; with large green eyes, copper-golden hair and a charisma rare in a female so young and out of place from all she knew. It was purely down to these qualities that she had managed to arrive in England and ensure herself food, shelter and warm; her uniqueness captivating my father on sight.
She died when I was only 5, so my memories of her are very hazy, added to by a single monochrome of her, taken on her wedding day. I mostly could remember only, the sound of her voice as she comforted me when I cried. Or, on the nights which seemed particularly dark and cold in my babyhood, the comfort of her lilting soprano, regaling me with traditional songs from her homeland. A couple of haunting melodies would occasionally reverberate around my mind, hints of memory, unformed and not quite tangible. I hoped very much that I would have an opportunity to visit the town my Mother was born in one day, I felt that somehow, I may find a piece of her there. Or the piece of me that had been missing, since she had left me.
I write this story from the beginning. You know from my writing it that I am still alive, through all the times you may doubt my survival you can be sure, from my writing this. That I did survive. This is my story, my real life.
It was 1901 when my life, began to develop from the mundane, to the remarkable and I was just 19 years of age, although of course at the time I viewed myself as fully mature and capable. Tall, apparently handsome, lively, enthusiastic and hopeful I was very curious about the world around me, and just as sheltered. Unfortunately, I was also very shy and unsure of myself back in those days, despite my attempts to infer the contrary. Growing up, it was difficult to be oblivious to the disappointment of my Father, that I was not made of the same thickly woven cloth. This was unaided by my inability to feel entirely comfortable with my step-Mother or feel fully integrated with my younger half-siblings who had seemingly lived in a cocoon for which I had not been given a key or more than an occasional invitation.
Looking back I was clearly a strong-minded, stubborn and defiant young man even then, determined to forge my own path, find my own sense of belonging; somewhere, somehow. So many in my shoes would have bowed to the pressure and followed their father’s wishes that I studied to become a physician, or at the very least to become a man of the law. Rebellion was uncommon in those pre-war times and I’d managed it well, slipping under the radar by living in my own inner world, or another's, within the pages of a thick book.
Whilst my relationship with my family was distant, aloof and entirely non-tactile, it did remain and I was more than tolerated. I may not be what was wished for in an eldest son, but I knew that my father and I had a few lines of communication and connection that remained open. Here in London in 1901 I still lived under his roof, eating his food, and reading his books {the latter taking up the majority of my hours}.
I had never been scholarly, but I had been thirsty to read books, discover other people's stories and inner worlds, right from my earliest days. When I was first given a pencil my mission had begun, I finally had the tools to re-create all those shapes and variations of the world that I had always seen inside my mind.
London at the end of the 19th Century was not a very beautiful place, there is beauty around us to be sought everywhere and always of course, but my young mind was thirsty for more images, more colours, and foliage, all sorely lacking in the over-crowded brick lanes. I dreamed of the pictures I had seen a few times in very expensive books; of green green fields, blue blue skies, animals actually living out there on the land, some animals which, it was said lived under the soil, which was very mysterious to me. It was a world I could only begin to comprehend, one which was only glimpsed and hinted at and so, with my pencil, I set about creating a little more of this unseen land. Imagining what would be; what kind of animals may exist in other continents where there was less rain and more heat.
I must have inherited my desire for beauty from my mother also, she had the grace of a dancer and the eye of an artist. My father was proud of these attributes in her and I think, secretly drawn to the same qualities in myself. Alongside his adoration for her, however was an equal amount of resentment, for she never gave herself to him. Even in their married days, she remained an enigma; one he wished to possess and protect from the dark depths that purveyed her days. He wanted to be her hero, to rescue her from the terrors and tragedies she had experienced before she had escaped and fallen into his arms to be saved.
She never had been saved. She had merely allowed him to keep her alive, saving her shining qualities for the son she so worshipped and cherished, each day with all of her might, until she faded away entirely.
Her face was still talked of on occasion for it’s aesthetic appeal and mentioned to me, as it was that I had inherited her features, alongside her talents. In my minds eye, I played a vision of an imaginary town where she was born was, so beautiful as to be almost painful upon the eyes in the morning. She had told me stories and talked purple mountains and golden flowers covering green meadows. I had never seen anything like these and the images they conjured to me were probably nothing like they had appeared to her. They were a comfort still, and at this point I had no knowledge of the pain and misfortune she had experienced after the glorious days of youth which she had recounted to me so vividly, that my subconscious held their projected snapshots, as if they were precious jewels.
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