by Kate Forsyth
‘Like raid the pantry,’ Gretchen said.
‘Gretchen,’ Frau Wild said.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re not coming,’ Gretchen went on, ignoring her mother. ‘Rudolf said that we were invited because they had heard we were the prettiest girls in Cassel. No one would think that if they saw us coming in with a dumpling like Mia.’
‘No one would have invited you if they knew what a snake you were,’ Mia shot back, her round cheeks turning red and her blue eyes more protuberant than ever. ‘I hope no one asks you to dance and you spend the whole night standing against the wall with the other old maids.’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ Gretchen replied smugly, twirling about so the long fringes of the shawl swung out. ‘I shall wear this dress’ – she pointed at the blue silk Dortchen was wearing – ‘and this hat,’ she said, pointing to the one Mia had taken off. ‘I bet the King himself dances with me.’
Dortchen began to struggle out of the blue silk.
‘Never mind,’ Lisette whispered, helping her. But, of course, Dortchen did mind.
MIRROR, MIRROR
December 1807
All was dark and quiet in the house.
Dortchen’s sisters had gone to the ball in high excitement, Frau Wild declaring she was quite worn out already and didn’t know how she was to get through the evening.
Dinner had been a silent meal, and afterwards Röse, Dortchen and Mia had helped clear away and wash up. Old Marie had tried to cheer them, but it was hard not to feel low and depressed when their sisters were having fun at a ball and meeting the King, while they were left at home.
Once, Dortchen would have planned on sneaking out. She would have hung a green scarf on the washing line that hung between her and Lotte’s bedroom windows, and put a note in the peg basket for her to find. Together, they would have crept through the dark town, muffling giggles and keeping to the shadows, all the way to the King’s palace. They would have crouched in the shelter of the woods, watching people dance past the long windows, music spilling into the night. Perhaps they might even have danced together in the moonlight, two girls in long white nightgowns, hair flowing unbound down their backs.
Instead, she went to bed.
With Mia lying asleep beside her, breathing quietly, Dortchen lay under the heavy eiderdown and looked out over the snow-heaped rooftops. The moon was full, its face pockmarked with shadows, and the landscape of spires and chimneys and steep rooftops seemed strange and alien, embossed silver against black.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. Her body tensed. Heavy, slow footsteps, trying to be quiet. Those old wooden stairs creaked and groaned in protest with every step, however. Closer the sounds came, and then light probed under the door. The door handle turned and the door was eased open. Dortchen shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
The footsteps tiptoed across the room and Dortchen felt candlelight press against her eyelids. She did not move or even breathe. She could smell brandy and tobacco smoke. As her father bent over her, the fumes almost made her choke. She felt him pick up a tendril of her hair and tuck it behind her ear. For a moment his hand lingered on her, then he turned and went slowly away, the light receding with him.
The next morning the three eldest Wild sisters were full of news and importance.
‘You should see the palace,’ Gretchen cried, clasping her hands together. ‘King Jérôme has thrown out all of the Kurfürst’s ugly old stuff and ordered new furniture from Paris. It was exceedingly elegant.’
‘No wonder Father’s taxes are now so high,’ Lisette said.
‘You know what I heard? The King and his courtiers played leapfrog through the empty rooms before the furniture arrived. In their underwear!’ Hanne laughed out loud.
‘I was simply pestered with dance partners,’ Gretchen said. ‘My dance card is full. See? I’ve kept it. It’ll be a souvenir of the night I met my husband.’
‘I really do not think it was wise to dance the waltz twice with Herr von Eschwege,’ Lisette said.
‘Oh, pooh! He’s by far the best catch,’ Gretchen replied. ‘They’re a noble family, and besides, he’s rich.’
‘Gretchen, please, you should not speak so,’ Lisette said.
‘Why not? We all think it. I cannot bear all this hypocrisy. You’re just jealous because Herr von Eschwege only danced with you once.’
‘He asked me to dance again but I did not think it was wise,’ Lisette answered, colour rising in her cheeks.
‘So you say,’ Gretchen mocked.
‘Enough, Gretchen,’ Frau Wild said. ‘You must mind your tongue.’
Herr Grimm looked up from his newspaper. ‘I should think so,’ he said.
Gretchen pouted and looked sulky.
‘Tell me, Gretchen, what is a girl’s crown?’ he asked.
‘Modesty and gentility, skill, hard work and a love of labour,’ Gretchen recited in a bored voice.
‘No need to take that tone with me, young lady.’
‘Sorry, Father.’ Gretchen looked down at her plate.
Herr Wild looked around at his daughters, their heads bowed meekly. ‘You all would do well to remember it.’ He folded his paper, rose and went out of the room.
At once Gretchen revived. ‘You should have seen me, Dortchen. I had men fighting to bow over my hand. Some of them were very handsome. I met Ferdy Schmerfeld. He begged me for one of my gloves but Lisette will be glad to know I refused. His cousin is very important in the cabinet. And I met …’
On she rattled, and all Dortchen could do was listen and pretend to smile.
It was a cold, hard winter, but the court of the Merry King was an endless whirl of balls, masquerades, hunts and sledge rides in the snowy forest. Lisette, Gretchen and Hanne were much in demand. ‘So much coming, so much going,’ Old Marie complained. ‘No wonder your father is grumpy all the time.’
‘Bad weather ahead,’ Frau Wild moaned. ‘Oh, girls, must you?’
‘Yes, we must,’ Gretchen sang. ‘Though, Mother, I need a new muff. I must have a muff!’
One day, in mid-January, Wilhelm knocked on the door. Dortchen answered, having been in the kitchen stuffing a mattress tick with feathers plucked from the Christmas goose. She was wearing an old brown dress and a big apron, and small feathers clung to her coiled plaits and her hands. Wilhelm was carrying his writing box. Even though it was mid-afternoon, the square outside was gloomy, the sky heavy with snow clouds.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if Gretchen might be willing to tell me another story?’
‘I’ll ask her,’ Dortchen said. ‘Come in, don’t wait on the step.’
She left Wilhelm standing in the hallway and ran upstairs to the drawing room, where Lisette was ironing, Hanne was knitting a new winter shawl from some undyed wool given to their father in exchange for medicine, and Gretchen was standing before the mirror, pinching her cheeks and biting her lips. ‘It’s so unfair,’ she was saying. ‘All the women at court wear so much rouge but Father won’t hear of us having any. I look so pale and uninteresting next to all those French comtesses.’
‘Wilhelm is here,’ Dortchen said. ‘He wonders if you have time to tell him another story.’
Gretchen groaned. ‘Oh, no – can’t you tell him I’m busy?’
‘There’s no need to be rude to him,’ Dortchen replied, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘He is our neighbour. And his story collection is important to him. The least you could do is apologise.’
She went down to the front hall, where Wilhelm waited, looking ill at ease. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time,’ he said.
‘You haven’t,’ Dortchen said. She heard Gretchen’s impatient step coming down the stairs and turned to face her, trying to warn her with her eyes to be kind.
‘Good afternoon,’ Wilhelm said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s just … well, I haven’t had a story from you in a while.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any other stories. I
’ve told you all I can remember,’ Gretchen replied, smiling.
Dortchen stepped forward. ‘Wilhelm, won’t you come in and have some tea? We could ask Old Marie to tell you a story – she knows lots of them.’
He hesitated. Gretchen looked over her shoulder and made a little face at Dortchen, but then said sweetly, ‘Yes, why don’t you?’
‘A cup of tea would be welcome,’ he admitted.
‘Come into the kitchen – it’s warm in there. It’s cold, isn’t it?’ Dortchen took his hat and hung it on the hook, then held out her hands for his coat. Wilhelm shrugged it off and passed it to her. ‘I know you won’t mind us sitting in the kitchen,’ she continued, leading the way down the hall. ‘Old Marie will be busy but she’s always happy to tell a story. She knows some very beautiful, strange ones – the sort you would like, I’m sure.’
Gretchen followed along behind, looking rather sulky. Dortchen said over her shoulder, ‘Gretchen, why don’t you call the others? Lisette’s doing the ironing. She’d much rather have tea and hear a story, don’t you think?’
‘Very well,’ Gretchen said. She moved slowly up the stairs, not liking being sent on an errand but not wanting to argue with Dortchen in front of a young man, no matter how poor and shabby.
Dortchen went quietly past the door to the shop, where she could hear the low rumble of voices. She hoped her father had not noticed Wilhelm passing by the window and knocking on the door. They reached the kitchen and Dortchen led Wilhelm inside.
‘Come and sit by the fire, warm yourself,’ she said. ‘Old Marie, look, we have a guest for afternoon tea.’
Old Marie came out of the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked aghast. ‘Dortchen, my sweet, you shouldn’t be bringing Herr Grimm into the kitchen – it’s not seemly. Take him to the parlour and I’ll bring you a tray and lay a fire for you.’
‘Wilhelm doesn’t mind sitting in the kitchen,’ Dortchen said. ‘They sit in their own kitchen all the time. Besides, you know Father will be angry if you lay a fire in the parlour.’
Old Marie looked troubled. ‘I don’t think your father would like you entertaining a young man in the kitchen either.’
‘I like it in here,’ Wilhelm said, stretching his hands to the fire. ‘Please don’t mind me, Marie. It’s very comfortable and cosy in here.’
‘And no one in their right mind would ever call our parlour comfy and cosy,’ Dortchen said, sitting down in the rocking chair.
‘Very well. I’ll make some tea.’ Old Marie lifted the kettle, testing its weight, then hung it on its hook above the fire. ‘Are you hungry? I have some damson plum cake, made from last year’s preserves.’
‘That sounds delicious, thank you,’ Wilhelm said. As Old Marie went into the pantry, he turned to Dortchen. ‘I must admit, I’m starving. It’s been a long time since we’ve had plum cake.’
‘You should come for tea more often,’ Dortchen said. ‘Old Marie loves people enjoying her cooking.’
Old Marie came out of the pantry, carrying the plum cake in one hand and the tin of tea leaves in the other. The pantry door banged shut behind her, and they heard quick footsteps coming down the hall.
‘I’ll warrant that’s Mia – she can hear the pantry door opening from the attic, that girl,’ Old Marie said.
Mia opened the kitchen door and came in, round and rosy as a plum cake herself, her loops of braids bobbing up and down. Gretchen and Hanne followed her, laughing together. Röse came reluctantly, holding a heavy atlas in her arms. ‘Really, it is only the hope of sustenance that draws me here,’ she said. ‘You know I consider listening to old tales a most frivolous waste of time.’ Lisette came last, her face red and hot.
‘Just in time for tea,’ Old Marie said.
‘Wilhelm wants to hear a story,’ Dortchen explained. ‘Won’t you tell one, Old Marie?’
‘If Herr Grimm doesn’t mind me peeling turnips while I talk,’ Old Marie answered. ‘You girls can help me. No sitting idle with your hands in your lap, thank you very much.’
This last remark was directed at Gretchen, who had sat down by the fire and was sulkily coiling one of her long blonde ringlets about her finger. She huffed out a sigh, rolled her eyes and came to sit at the table with her sisters, who pushed the basket of vegetables towards her. Old Marie sat down, with a little ooof of pleasure at taking the weight off her feet, and drew a bowl of turnips towards her.
‘What tale shall I tell?’
‘The one about the queen who thought she was the most beautiful of all,’ Dortchen said, with a glance at Gretchen.
‘A good winter tale,’ Old Marie said.
‘Shall I sharpen your quills for you?’ Dortchen asked Wilhelm, who was unpacking his writing box at the far end of the table. He nodded in thanks, testing the end of one quill against his finger. Dortchen took up the remainder of the quills and his knife and began carefully whittling the end. Wilhelm drew a piece of paper towards him and looked expectantly at Old Marie.
‘Once upon a time, in winter, a beautiful queen sat sewing by the window,’ the old woman said, her gnarled fingers nimbly wielding her paring knife. ‘As she sewed, she looked out at the snow. Ravens were flying through the winter-bare trees, their wings as black as the blackest ebony. The queen pricked her finger with her needle. Some drops of blood fell into the snow.’
Wilhelm looked up. ‘I wonder if there were three drops of blood. If so, this story has echoes of Parzival. He was entranced by the sight of three red drops in the snow, recalling to him the memory of the woman he loved.’
‘Maybe so,’ Old Marie said. ‘I don’t rightly remember how many drops of blood there were, sir. Maybe it was three.’
Dortchen, sitting by Wilhelm’s shoulder, saw him write ‘Parzival – three drops of blood?’ in the margin, before he again settled down to transcribe Old Marie’s story.
‘The red on the white looked so beautiful that the queen thought, “If only I had a child as white as snow, with lips as red as blood and hair as black as a raven’s wing.” Soon afterward, she had a little daughter who was as white as snow, as red as blood and as black as ravens, and therefore they called her Little Snow-White.’
‘Really, I do not think she can have been very pretty, all black and white and red,’ Gretchen said. ‘She sounds like a magpie.’
‘Magpies aren’t red,’ Hanne said, frowning. ‘Do you mean a red-winged blackbird?’
‘Can’t she be fair?’ Gretchen said. ‘Everyone knows it is girls with golden hair who are the most beautiful.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Mia said, tossing her red-gold loops of braids.
‘She can be golden-haired if you want her to be,’ Old Marie said. ‘Though the story I heard was that she was black-haired.’
‘Write that she’s got golden hair,’ Gretchen said to Wilhelm, who smiled but did not write the words.
‘Shh,’ Dortchen said. ‘Listen.’
Old Marie went on. ‘Now, the queen had a mirror, which she stood in front of every morning, and asked, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?” And the mirror always said, “You, my queen, are fairest of all.” And then she knew for certain that no one in the world was more beautiful than she.’
Dortchen knew the story well. In time, the little princess grew to be more beautiful even than her mother. The queen grew so jealous that she took her little girl into the forest and abandoned her there, hoping she would be devoured by wild beasts. Little Snow-White took refuge in the house of seven dwarfs, falling asleep at last in one of their beds.
‘When night came, the seven dwarfs returned home from their work in the mines,’ Old Marie continued. ‘They lit their seven little candles and saw that someone had been in their house.’
Dortchen assumed a deep, gruff voice. ‘The first one said, “Who’s been sitting in my chair?”’
Wilhelm looked up, laughing in surprise.
‘The second one said, “Who’s been eating from my plate?”’ Lisette
put in, mimicking Dortchen’s gruff tones.
‘The third one said, “Who’s been eating my bread?”’ Hanne said.
‘The fourth one said, “Who’s been eating my vegetables?”’ Mia growled, waving a turnip.
So it went around the room, each of the six sisters calling out one of the seven dwarfs’ questions, till finally they reached the last one. ‘Who’s this lying in my bed?’ Dortchen squeaked.
It was a long story. Wilhelm’s fingers were cramped and stained liberally with ink by the time the queen had tried three times to kill her daughter – once lacing her so tight into her bodice she could not breathe, once with a poisoned comb, and finally by tricking her into tasting a poisoned apple. Little Snow-White died, but her body did not decay, and so the dwarfs put her into a glass coffin. A prince came past one day and fell in love with the beautiful dead girl. He convinced the dwarfs to let him have her. The prince would go nowhere without the dead girl, nor eat unless she was beside him. One day, his servant grew angry at having to carry the heavy glass coffin to and fro, and opened it up, sat up the corpse and slapped her hard across the back, saying, ‘We are plagued by this dead girl all day long!’ The terrible piece of apple she had eaten flew out of her throat and she woke from her enchanted sleep. The next day, the magical mirror told the cruel queen, ‘You, my queen, are fair, it’s true. But the young queen is a thousand times fairer than you.’ Filled with jealousy, the queen went to see this fair young maiden be married to her prince. To her horror, she realised she was her own hated daughter, Little Snow-White.
‘Then they put a pair of iron shoes into the fire until they glowed,’ Old Marie said, ‘and the queen had to put them on and dance in them. She could not stop until she had danced herself to death.’
‘Which seems a most appropriate punishment for the cardinal sin of vanity,’ Röse said with satisfaction.
‘What a wonderful story,’ Wilhelm said, scattering sand on the paper. ‘I could not get all of it – you spoke too fast, Marie. But I think I got the gist of it. Look at my page, have you ever seen such a mess? I’ll write it up again neatly when I get home, while it’s still fresh in my mind.’ He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag he kept in his writing box. ‘May I come and show it to you when I’m finished, Marie, so you can see if I’ve missed anything important?’