The Wild Girl (59 page)

August 1819

Dortchen tried to forget her confession in the dark.

Surely Wilhelm would not believe her.

If he did, how repulsed he must be.

How horrified.

How disgusted.

Whenever she thought about it, shame wracked her. She tried to pretend it had never happened.

Dortchen was well practised at such self-deceptions.

And Berthe took up all her time. Berthe – it meant ‘bright’. Such a big name for such a tiny scrap of a thing. Yet, like a lighthouse’s searching ray, Berthe lit up the darkness.

Dortchen did not go back to the shop after Berthe’s birth. There was too much to do. The baby screamed for milk that no one could provide. Dortchen sent a servant running to find a goat, and set another to make some pap from boiled water and a little rice flour so at least the baby had something to suck on. She had to wash and dress her dead sister, hang a cloth over her mirror, and take turns in sitting vigil beside her. Gretchen’s children were all distraught with grief and shock, and Herr Schmerfeld was struggling with his own sorrow.

‘You are too good to us,’ the grieving Herr Schmerfeld said, as she helped him prepare for the funeral.

‘Nonsense,’ she answered, turning away.

After a few days, he ordered a bedroom to be made ready for Dortchen, with a door that led through to the nursery. It was clean and white and had no memories. Dortchen sat on the bed and looked about her. There was a dressing table with a large mirror, and an array of silver brushes and combs and silver-topped crystal jars.

A maid came in and curtsied. ‘Would you like a bath, Fraülein? I’ve got water boiling ready for you.’

Dortchen nodded. She had barely had time to wash her face or brush her hair in days. She sat, watching, as two footmen carried in a hipbath and set it down by the fire, followed by two maids with jugs of hot water and fresh white towels. She sat in the bath till the water was cold.

That night, at supper, Herr Schmerfeld said to her, ‘I do hope you like your room.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she answered.

‘So you will stay a while? To help with Berthe?’

‘Yes, sir. If you don’t mind, sir.’

‘Mind? I don’t know what we’d do without you,’ he answered, and indicated that the footman should serve her some more roast beef.

As Dortchen ate, relishing each mouthful, Herr Schmerfeld continued talking. ‘No doubt you have some belongings you would like to bring from your brother’s shop. My carriage is at your disposal, whenever you need it.’

‘But, sir—’

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘The sooner you get there, the sooner you can be home with us.’

Rudolf had not seen her since the funeral, and was full of anxious questions about the children and the baby. ‘It’s so hard to believe she’s gone,’ he kept saying. ‘So you will stay, to help look after the baby?’ he asked at last.

Dortchen nodded. ‘I promised her.’

‘I will miss your help in the garden and the stillroom,’ Rudolf said.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It won’t be forever. Just till Berthe is a little older.’

He nodded and tried to smile.

It was dark when she bade Rudolf goodbye. It was a great relief to have the carriage waiting for her, and not have to face the long walk back to the New Town.

She was troubled, though, by how tired Rudolf had looked. He was lonely, she thought. That evening, Dortchen was even quieter than usual at supper. Herr Schmerfeld noticed, and asked her if all was well. Dortchen found the courage to confess her worry to him.

‘Well, that’s no problem at all,’ Herr Schmerfeld said. ‘Rudolf must come here and take his supper with us. The children would love to see their uncle more often. And I know you have always loved your garden. Why don’t you go there each day and spend an hour or two, and then bring Rudolf back with you in the carriage for supper?’

‘But … Berthe—’

‘She sleeps in the afternoon. She’ll not miss you.’

‘But what if she wakes?’

‘Ida can look after her for an hour, or Frau Claweson. I don’t want you getting sick. A break will do you good.’

Dortchen bit her lip. ‘If you think it’ll be all right …’

‘Of course it’ll be all right. You can bring us back some flowers, or fresh vegetables for our supper, and I’ll think I’m getting a very good bargain for the use of my carriage.’

So Dortchen went each day, riding in the carriage like a fine lady, to walk in the garden and gather baskets of herbs and flowers, to watch the butterflies dance above the blossoms, and to work in the stillroom, making the teas and candied flowers and herbal tinctures that she so loved. Rudolf came back with her each evening for supper. He and Herr Schmerfeld would talk of business and politics and bank rates, while Dortchen quietly sewed little white dresses for the growing Berthe.

She found it strangely restful to allow Herr Schmerfeld to manage such things for her.

Days whirled by. Months.

Gradually, the little household settled down into a new routine. The
children stopped waking in the night and crying out for their mother. The housekeeper began to consult Dortchen on the best dishes to tempt her master’s appetite.

Berthe fascinated her aunt. The funny little expressions she pulled. The way she sucked her fists. The way she nestled into Dortchen’s shoulder, sleepy and content, ready for bed.

In early December, Berthe surprised her by managing to roll over onto her stomach. The little girl screamed in terror. Laughing, Dortchen lifted her up and comforted her. ‘I had best not lay you down on the bed any more,’ she told her. ‘Soon you’ll be crawling.’

Dortchen discovered Herr Schmerfeld’s library. She had never had much time for reading before. It was a wonderful luxury to curl up in a big chair by the fire, a book in her lap, and as many candles as she liked to light the page. There were so many books in the library that Dortchen hardly knew where to start.

She took down a volume of Herr von Goethe, remembering how she had struggled to read one of his books as a girl, stealing candle stubs and trying to decipher the tiny words by the frail light. Somehow, it was much easier to read now.

One night Herr Schmerfeld came into the library and found her there. Dortchen started up. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go.’

‘No need to go,’ he replied, smiling kindly. ‘Unless you would prefer to read alone?’

She hesitated, not wanting to leave the warmth and comfort of the library, but not wanting to intrude either. He sat down, opened his book and began reading. After a while, he turned a page. She sat down too and picked up her own book. She did not read. She was too aware of the soft sound of his breathing, but gradually she relaxed and returned to her own book.

After that, they shared the quiet of the library many times, and Herr Schmerfeld began to pick out books that he thought she might enjoy. In this way, Dortchen discovered the English writers Jane Austen and Sir Walter Scott, and the Romantic poets, and Madame de Staël. She also
read old legends and myths, and books of history. A whole new world was unfurling before her.

A few days before Christmas, Wilhelm came to visit. She had not seen him since the dreadful night of Gretchen’s death. When his name was announced, she sat still and silent, with Berthe in her arms. Herr Schmerfeld looked up from his accounts. ‘You do not have to see him, if you do not wish,’ he said.

The thought of seeing Wilhelm made her anxious. He knew her darkest secret, the thing she had kept hidden from everyone. It would have been so easy to deny him, to tell Herr Schmerfeld to send him away. Then Dortchen could have pretended her secret was still locked away.

She looked down at Berthe’s sleeping face, so trusting, so innocent, and sighed. ‘No. I’ll see him.’ She laid Berthe down in her crib and went down the stairs to the front hall.

Wilhelm was still muffled in his coat and scarf. Snow lay white on his shoulders. Dortchen found it hard to look at him. She looked at his boots instead, snow melting into puddles on the tiles.

‘I’ve brought you a gift,’ he said. ‘Dortchen—’

She made a swift gesture.
Stop! Don’t speak!

He showed her a leather-bound book. ‘It’s the new edition of the fairy tales. I’ve … rewritten the tales.’

She looked at him questioningly, twisting her hands together. His dark eyes were grave, intent on her face.

‘I’ve thought very hard about what you said to me that day in the park, Dortchen. How the beauty of the tales could be obscured over time, like old silver blackened by tarnish. Perhaps it was not enough to simply gather the old tales, to stop them being forgotten. Perhaps it was also my job to restore them to their beauty and mystery and wonder. To do that, I had to find the essential truth of each story, the truth hidden under the tarnish of time.’

She nodded.

Wilhelm chose his next words carefully. ‘The whole reason for telling the fairy tales is to awaken the heart. To help people
believe
that misfortune
can be overcome and evil conquered. If the fairy tales are to do their work, they must shine.’

Her eyes were fixed on his face. Her breathing was painful.

‘I’ve tried to make them shine,’ he said. He passed her the book. It fell open to a page towards the end. A golden, heart-shaped leaf had been inserted to mark the story there. A linden leaf.

She lifted the leaf so she could see the title. ‘All-Kinds-of-Fur,’ she read. Her hand slammed the book shut.

‘I rewrote it for you,’ he said. ‘In the tale you told me, it seems as if the king, her father, is the same as the king, her betrothed. It’s as if she cannot escape him, no matter how she runs or hides. I don’t think that’s the truth of the tale. I think she escapes him and, by her own cleverness and bravery, is able to find love and happiness.’

Slowly, Dortchen clasped the book to her breast.

‘I know you’ll find it hard,’ he said. ‘But I hope you read it and see what I’ve done.’

Still she was unable to speak.

He examined her face closely, frowning and stern. ‘I can’t give you much. I haven’t the money for jewels, or silks and satins, or for a fine horse and carriage in which to drive you around.’ There was a faint trace of bitterness in his voice. ‘There was only one thing I could do for you, and that was to make your story as beautiful and true and good as I could.’

Dortchen stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

After Wilhelm had left, Dortchen went up to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, looking down at the book in her hands. After a long time, she opened it to the page marked by the golden linden leaf, and she read the story.

The changes Wilhelm had made were small, but profound. Much of the violence had been softened. Instead of a great many animals being caught and flayed to make the girl’s coat of fur, only a small piece of their hide was taken. Instead of the girl being dragged behind the cart, she was put on it
gently and taken to the king’s castle. The reference to the king throwing boots at her head was taken out, as was the mention of her being naked under her coat of fur.

Hidden in the text was a small salute to Dortchen. He had described the princess as a ‘Wild deer’, capitalising the W in a subtle reference to her name. She smiled through her tears and read on.

Most importantly, the new version of the tale made it clear that the king in whose house the princess had taken shelter was not her father. The three gifts that she hid in his soup aroused only curiosity, not recognition. The story’s ending was one of joy, not of submission and fear.

Dortchen laid the linden leaf back in the book and closed it, hugging it to her chest. Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

He had given her a great gift.

BLINDMAN’S BLUFF

January 1820

The new edition of the fairy tales became Dortchen’s greatest treasure. She often drew it out at night, to read the stories again and to twirl the golden leaf between her fingers.

‘All-Kinds-of-Fur’ was not the only story changed. The murderous queen in ‘Little Snow-White’ was now her stepmother, not her mother, and Snow-White was woken when the servant helping to carry her glass coffin stumbled, instead of striking her across the face. Rapunzel no longer complained about her dress being too tight, and a spinning wheel had been introduced into ‘Rumpelstiltskin’, for the miller’s daughter to spin the straw into gold. The miller’s daughter also came up with a string of funny and ludicrous names, such as Beastrib and Muttoncalf, before guessing the dwarf’s real name. In addition, Wilhelm had added Dortchen’s rhyme about ‘the wind so wild, the heavenly child’ into ‘Hänsel and Gretel’, which pleased Dortchen a great deal.

The book was beautifully illustrated by Ludwig Grimm, and the scholarly notes had been left out. Dortchen thought it a great improvement.

Wilhelm came to visit her often. His excuse was that he was studying children’s games, so he came to watch the Schmerfeld children and listen to their play. He and Dortchen would sit together in the garden, Berthe on her lap, while the older children played. The girls chanted rhymes as they skipped, while the boys built kites from sticks and paper and string.