by Kate Forsyth
‘Hush, my darling, hush, don’t weep,’ Old Marie murmured, stroking Dortchen’s hair away from her forehead.
‘But why? Why does he do it?’
‘Not everyone shows their love in the best of ways.’
‘He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love anyone!’
‘He does,’ Old Marie whispered. ‘He fears for you. He wants to keep you safe. Oh, I admit he can be cruel, my sweet. But love … love is not always easy.’
‘I just wanted to see. He keeps us locked up like prisoners.’
Old Marie bent her mouth to Dortchen’s ear. ‘Do not anger him, sweetling. There was such darkness in his face tonight. I fear for you. Try to be good and quiet. He does not like it when you talk back to him. Try not to say a word.’
Dortchen thought of the old tale about the girl who could not speak or laugh for six years, who tore her hands to pieces weaving six shirts from nettles for her six swan-brothers. Her throat closed.
PART TWO
Weaving Nettles
CASSEL
The Kingdom of Westphalia, 1807–1808
‘We can only be free of our swan-skins for one quarter-hour each evening. If you want to save us, you must weave us six shirts from nettles in six years and not once may you speak and not once may you laugh, otherwise all will be in vain.’ As her brother spoke, the quarter-hour came to its end, and they were once again transformed into swans.
From ‘Six Swans’, a tale told by Dortchen Wild to Wilhelm Grimm on 19th January 1812
GREEN SAUCE
October 1807
‘Dortchen, we need you. You must come straight away!’ Lotte ran into the Wild family’s kitchen without bothering to knock or say good evening.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Dortchen turned from the fireplace, where she was stirring a pot of soup. She was alone in the kitchen; Old Marie was busy turning out the linen cupboard with Frau Wild. The starling was perched on her shoulder.
‘We have visitors come, noblemen, and not a thing in the house to cook for them.’ Lotte clasped both her hands together imploringly. ‘Please, can you help us? Please, please.’
‘Please, please,’ Mozart chirped in her ear.
Dortchen hesitated, glancing out the door. The light was fading. Her father would soon lock up his shop, and he would be expecting his supper. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t understand – these are important people. They wrote that book of old songs and poems that Jakob and Wilhelm have been collecting for. Perhaps they can help us. Oh, please, Dortchen, please.’
‘Please, please,’ Mozart chirped.
Dortchen was torn. ‘How many of them are there? What do you have in the pantry?’
‘Nothing. Not a crumb. And there’s a host of them. Herr Brentano and his mad wife and his mad sister, and Herr von Arnim. They know Herr von Goethe. They know publishers! Please, Dortchen.’
Dortchen looked in the pantry quickly. She dared not take much from their own shelves, for her father scrutinised the weekly accounts closely and was always scolding her mother and Old Marie for waste and improvidence. Besides, a cup of lentils and a jar of pickled onions would not be much use to Lotte.
‘Here’s a sack of potatoes. Take that – hurry, before anyone sees you – and start peeling. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Lotte nodded and obeyed. The kitchen door banged behind her as she hurried away, the sack dangling from one hand.
Dortchen felt sick. Now there would be no potatoes for their supper tomorrow, and Herr Wild loved his fried potatoes.
I need something easy, she thought, something that will feed a lot of people. Something cheap. Something quick. But what? Fish! I could do a green sauce … it’s a Hessian speciality; they might like to try it.
Pulling the pot of soup off the heat of the fire, she grabbed her shawl, her basket and her gardening knife and went out into the garden. Above the walls, the sky was streaked with sunset colour, catching the golden fruit of the apple trees. The garden glowed above and was soft with shadows below. She slipped out the gate and across the alley, running up the three flights of stairs to put her head into the Grimm family’s kitchen. ‘Lotte,’ she called. ‘Quick, run to the market and buy some fish. I’ll make you some green sauce. All you need do is toss the fish in a little flour, then fry them in butter. Can you manage that?’
Lotte nodded, dropping her paring knife into the pile of dirty peelings.
‘Put the potatoes on first,’ Dortchen said. ‘They take longer.’
No more was said. She ran back downstairs, across the alleyway and through the gate into her own garden, then dropped to her knees and began to cut handfuls of borage, sorrel, watercress, burnet, chervil, chives and parsley, placing the fresh green leaves into her basket.
A shadow fell across her.
‘What are you doing?’ Herr Wild asked. He must have seen her through the stillroom door, which opened out into the garden.
Dortchen’s hands paused. ‘I … I’m cutting herbs, Father.’
‘I can see that. I’m not a fool. Why are you cutting herbs? Is supper not yet ready?’
She forced herself to look up. He stood over her, his hands on his hips, his legs planted wide. ‘Yes, supper’s ready. I’m just making a quick sauce. It won’t be long.’
‘Then what were you doing outside the garden gate? Were you meeting a boy out there?’
‘No, Father, of course not. I … I was just making sure none of our apples had fallen over the wall.’
‘Where are they, then?’
‘What?’
‘The apples. Where are they?’
‘There was none out there. None had fallen.’
He grunted. ‘More likely some thieving boy got to them first.’
She did not reply.
The church bells began to ring out, marking the hour. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I must finish.’ Her skirts brushed against his leg as she passed him on the narrow path. He smelt of sweat, alcohol and tobacco smoke. Her father had drunk only rarely before the French invasion. Now he drank all day.
‘See that supper is not late,’ he said to her back.
It had been a year since the French army had marched into Hessen-Cassel. Many things had changed for Dortchen in that time. She was now fourteen and a half, and confined within stays that compressed her ribs and made her feel like she could not breathe. Her hair no longer swung free in a long plait but was curbed with a fistful of pins. She no longer went to school but stayed at home, helping her mother and sisters. Worst of all, she was no longer allowed to go out into the forest by herself, or even to the garden plot outside the town walls.
Hessen-Cassel itself had changed. It was no longer a free country with its own Kurfürst but part of the new Kingdom of Westphalia, which had been formed by mashing together the Duchy of Magdeburg, the Electorate of Hanover, the Principality of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel and a few other small territories.
At first it seemed as if the new kingdom would be given to Napoléon’s brother Louis, who was already King of Holland, but in April news had come that the youngest Bonaparte brother, Jérôme, had been named king instead. Jérôme was twenty-three years old, the same age as Dortchen’s brother. Like Rudolf, Jérôme was more interested in gambling and hunting and cockfights than in matters of state. It was said that he had danced while Berlin was ransacked, and that he had already run up debts of millions of francs. Although so young, he had already caused a great deal of scandal. He had married an American heiress while visiting the New World, but had abandoned her and his newborn son at the command of his imperious older brother to marry instead a German princess, the daughter of one of the oldest ruling families in Europe. Jérôme and Catherine of Württemberg had been wed in Paris in April and were slowly wending their way towards Cassel.
In the meantime, the town was full of French soldiers. They drank and gambled and danced, taking what they wanted from the shops and houses, and pa
ying with paper assignants that were virtually worthless. The palace had been plundered of its art treasures, and wagons filled with paintings and statues had trundled away from the town towards Paris. The arsenal had been taken over, the French taking all the guns and gunpowder and heavy cannons for their own use. Herr Wild’s shop had been cleaned out of its drugs and medications, so the Wild sisters had all been kept busy in the garden and the stillroom, helping their father make new remedies to replace what had been taken. Although Herr Wild was promised reparation, he said he never expected to see a thaler of it.
The Grimm family was suffering even more. Jakob had quit his job at the War Office, exhausted by the demands upon him and unable to bear working for the French. He had applied for a job as the librarian at the palace, but had been passed over for someone with fewer credentials but nobler blood. Since Aunt Zimmer had fled with Princess Wilhelmine, she was no longer able to help them with gifts of food and money. It had been a hard summer, and Dortchen was not alone in dreading the coming of the winter months.
She flew about the kitchen, hurriedly putting eggs on to boil, and crushing the herbs with oil in her mortar. She would serve some with the boiled beef already prepared for their supper, then slip over to Lotte’s with the rest as soon as she could.
Old Marie came hurrying in just as Dortchen was dunking the boiled eggs in cold water. ‘Green sauce?’ she asked, smelling the crushed herbs. ‘Is there time?’
‘There has to be time,’ Dortchen answered.
Old Marie looked at her questioningly but said nothing. Together they peeled the eggs at top speed, then mashed them with vinegar and sour cream and herbs. Dortchen rang the bell and they whisked the meal onto trays and carried it to the dining room.
‘Would you take the rest of the sauce over to Lotte?’ Dortchen pleaded. ‘Tell her I’ll be there just as soon as I can.’
Old Marie nodded, though her wrinkled face was anxious.
At last the meal was done, and Dortchen was able to slip away under pretence of checking the livestock.
The Grimms’ kitchen was hot and noisy. Frau Grimm and Lotte were juggling pots of boiling potatoes and pans of frying fish on the tiny fireplace, while Ludwig was sprawled at the table, drawing a caricature of Napoléon as a dwarf in military uniform with a dozen crowns on his head. He was trying to stack one more crown on but his arms were not long enough. At his feet lay a dozen toppled monarchs, looking dazed.
‘Dortchen – thank heavens you’re here.’ Lotte’s face was flushed, beads of sweat standing out on her brow. She tested the potatoes in the pot with a fork.
‘Who’s here?’ Dortchen asked, hanging up her shawl. ‘Do you think they can really help your brothers be published?’
‘It’s the authors of The Magic Horn – you know, that collection of old German songs,’ Lotte answered. ‘They’ve had other books published too.’
‘One is Herr von Arnim,’ Frau Grimm said, turning the fish in the frying pan. ‘A very old noble family from Prussia.’
‘His father is the director of the Royal Berlin Theatre,’ Lotte put in. ‘Or he was. I don’t know if he still is, now that Berlin is occupied by the French.’
‘They’re Catholics!’ Frau Grimm exclaimed. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘The other is the poet Clemens Brentano,’ Ludwig said. ‘He’s here with his new wife. Apparently they eloped.’
‘And his old wife in her grave only a few months, and her poor little baby with her,’ Frau Grimm said, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘She says he abducted her,’ Lotte said, making a shocked face at Dortchen. ‘The new wife, I mean.’
‘It all seems rather irregular,’ Frau Grimm said. ‘I wasn’t at all sure that I should receive them.’
‘Except they might help the boys get jobs.’ Lotte turned to Dortchen. ‘Herr Brentano’s sister Kunigunde is married to Professor von Savigny, who took Jakob to Paris last year, and his other sister, Ludovica, is married to the banker Herr Jordis, who employs Karl. So, you see, they are very well connected. Oh, if only they could help us some more. I don’t know how we’ll survive otherwise.’
Ludwig frowned at her. ‘Lotte, you shouldn’t say such things. Dortchen doesn’t need to know all our problems.’
‘I haven’t any secrets from Dortchen,’ Lotte replied impatiently. ‘She’s like a sister to me, isn’t she, Mother?’
‘Indeed, yes,’ Frau Grimm said, poking at the fish in the pan with a fork. ‘If I was ever to have another daughter, I’d like her to be just like Dortchen, the sweet girl that she is.’
Dortchen smiled at her. ‘Well, if I was ever to have another mother, I’d like her to be just like you too.’
‘Except hopefully a better cook,’ Frau Grimm said. ‘Oh, Dortchen, is the fish ready? I never can tell.’
Dortchen took her place at the fire. ‘Only a little bit scorched,’ she replied, skilfully turning the fish out onto a platter. ‘I’m sure no one will mind.’
‘I think my potatoes are overdone too,’ Lotte said, prodding them doubtfully.
‘Let’s mash them,’ Dortchen said. ‘I brought some butter.’
‘Bless you,’ Lotte said.
OLD TALES
October 1807
The sitting room was full of people. Dortchen put the tray down on the big table in the middle of the room and looked around curiously.
Apart from the four eldest Grimm brothers, there were two men. One was thin and dark and serious-looking, very elegantly dressed in a starched cravat and a well-cut coat of dark-blue superfine over a snowy-white waistcoat. His hair was cut short à la Brutus, a few curls allowed to fall on his broad, pale forehead.
The other man could not have been more different. He was closer to thirty than twenty, and was broad-chested and heavy-jowled. Deep lines of dissipation ran from the corners of his loose-lipped mouth to his chin. His eyes were heavily pouched, his forehead marked with scowl lines. He did not wear the dark coat and intricate starched cravat of a man of fashion, but a loose emerald-green robe like a medieval scholar, with a bright-orange scarf wrapped loosely about his throat. His hair was short and messy, but – unlike the nonchalant disorder of his companion’s – it looked as if he had not bothered to run a comb through it in some time.
The women were as strangely dressed as he was. One was little more than a girl, dressed all in black, from hem to collar to fingertip to bonnet. Her dress was made of muslin, however, not bombazine, and it looked as if it had been dyed in a hurry by an amateur, for the hue was patchy. Her bonnet, too, had been inexpertly dyed, and Dortchen could see where flowers had been ripped away and replaced by swathes of black veiling. She sat by herself in a corner, though her eyes busily flicked from one person to another. Her face was a constant parade of emotions – anger, scornful disbelief, outrage, wistful longing – which crossed her face in moments as she listened to the ebb and flow of the conversation.
‘She’s wearing mourning for her lost innocence,’ Lotte whispered to Dortchen. ‘She and Herr Brentano’ – she indicated the man in the orange scarf – ‘were married this week. She says he abducted her. He says he came to Cassel to escape her, but found her in his carriage dressed in a wedding gown, and what else was he to do?’
‘How old is she?’ Dortchen whispered back.
‘Sixteen.’
Only two years older than she was, and married to this world-weary man with the scowling eyes. Dortchen felt sorry for her. The girl in black must have seen her quick glance, for she stood up and pointed. ‘Look, Clemens, there’s a girl even younger and fresher than me. We’ve been married but a week. Time enough. Divorce me and you can carry her off in your carriage and ravish her like you ravished me.’
‘Augusta,’ her husband said warningly.
‘Don’t call me that any more,’ she proclaimed in a trembling voice. ‘Augusta Busmann is dead.’
‘Oh, stop being so tiresome,’ the other young woman said. ‘You jump into Clemens’s carriage and
beg him to take you away. What did you expect him to do?’
‘You have no heart, Bettina Brentano,’ Augusta said, turning her face away.
‘No, no, I am all heart,’ Bettina cried. ‘That’s your problem, Augusta. You say you want to live a life of romance and danger and passion, but you’re only pretending. If you truly want to be alive, you’ve got to feel it all – the pain, the guilt, the desire – all of it.’
Dortchen could not help staring at Bettina, who was the most extraordinary-looking creature she had ever seen. Aged in her early twenties, she was as small and delicate as a child, with large, dark eyes, pale skin and a riot of dark curls that hung all around her face in tight ringlets. She wore a white poet’s shirt with billowing sleeves and a flowing collar, tied with a crimson sash over flowing purple silk. A bracelet of coins hung about one wrist. They chimed with every move she made.
‘Supper’s ready,’ Lotte cried.
Karl and Ferdinand came and took up their plates, crowing with delight. ‘It’s a feast! Mother, you’ve done wonders.’
‘Oh, it was Dortchen and Lotte.’ Frau Grimm smiled comfortably.
Karl opened the wine and splashed it into pewter goblets, and Ferdinand passed them around.
‘The poor fish,’ Bettina said. ‘I wish that I had been there when he was caught, so I could ransom him and set him free.’
‘Do you not want yours?’ Karl demanded. ‘Because I’ll take it gladly.’
‘I suppose one must eat,’ Bettina said, and she took a plate and fork back to the armchair by the fire, where she sat with her legs curled up under her. Dortchen, passing out forks and napkins, was surprised. That was Jakob’s chair. The eldest Grimm brother seemed content to sit at the table and eat, however; he was deep in conversation with Wilhelm and the elegant young man in the white waistcoat, who must be Achim von Arnim.
