The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘He did not throw his usual New Year’s Eve party,’ Dortchen said. ‘Surely that was out of respect for the fallen soldiers?’

  ‘More likely he had no money left to pay for it,’ Wilhelm said.

  Dortchen nodded and showed him her thin purse. ‘Neither have we.’

  For a moment they walked in silence, then Wilhelm burst out, ‘We have scarcely earned a single thaler for the book, Dortchen. Our publisher, Herr Reimer, refuses to send us any money, saying that sales are slow and times are hard.’

  Dortchen saw how bitter his disappointment was and turned to him, her face full of sympathy. She would have liked to have touched him in comfort, but they were in the street, in full view of milkmaids and carriage drivers and market vendors, and she could not cause such a scandal. ‘All those wonderful stories,’ she said. ‘I thought everyone would want to buy them.’

  ‘We’ve not had a very good critical response, either,’ Wilhelm said. ‘I was hoping Herr von Goethe would write a review for me but he has not answered my letters. And they banned the book in Vienna, saying it’s filled with superstition.’

  ‘So?’ Dortchen asked. ‘The tales are old. They come from a time when everyone believed in spells and superstitions. How can they be so stupid?’

  She thought of Old Marie, who was so devout and yet still so connected to the old ways, with all their fears and fables.

  ‘One reviewer said …’ Wilhelm took a deep breath. ‘He said the book was filled with “the most pathetic and tasteless material imaginable”. Those words are engraved on my heart.’

  ‘But whatever do they mean?’ Dortchen asked.

  ‘They say it’s immoral. They’ve singled out “Rapunzel” as one tale that must disgust, because she and the prince are not married and yet she bears him twins. “The Frog-King” is another. They don’t like the way the princess takes the frog into her bed.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dortchen cried, then flushed crimson.

  ‘I did not read it that way either,’ Wilhelm said. ‘I suppose I was naive.’

  They had reached the end of the marketplace and stood at the parapet, looking across the snowy valley below. The river was frozen hard and the trees in Karlsaue Park were bare and black, but the sun shone on the golden dome of the orangery and faintly warmed their backs. Rooks circled overhead, calling mournfully. The bare twigs of the trees were filled with the dark tangle of their nests.

  Dortchen wondered what it would be like to live so far above the ground, resting in nothing more than a twirl of twigs, shaken by every cold wind that blew. Were the rooks wild and free and fearless, or were they filled with terror and despair at the frailty of their own black wings?

  ‘I must go,’ she said, shaking with cold.

  Wilhelm turned to her swiftly. ‘Can’t we walk by the river for a while? We’ve not seen the sun for so long.’

  Dortchen hesitated.

  Wilhelm caught her hand. ‘I have not seen you in so long.’

  She pulled her hand free. ‘I can’t. If my father should find out …’

  He frowned. ‘What are we to do? I can’t go on like this, never seeing you.’ He hesitated. ‘I had given up trying to talk to him, he was so unreasonable, but surely now, with so much tragedy in your lives … Surely he cannot keep denying us our happiness?’

  Dortchen shook her head.

  ‘I wanted the book to sell,’ Wilhelm burst out, at last. ‘We cannot marry, we cannot make ourselves a life, unless I can earn some money. Oh, Dortchen, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Can you not rewrite the stories and make them more suitable for children?’ she suggested.

  ‘We didn’t collect the tales in order that they be read to children,’ Wilhelm said. ‘We wanted to preserve the old tales and annotate them for scholars, so they could be studied and understood.’

  ‘There are many more children in Germany than scholars,’ Dortchen said.

  Wilhelm smiled ruefully. ‘True.’

  ‘So why not write a book for children, in the hope you will get more sales?’ she said.

  ‘I would, but Jakob says—’ He stopped abruptly. Dortchen went red. They stood side by side in silence, the cold wind cutting at their faces.

  ‘I’m sorry I said all those things,’ Dortchen said. ‘I know how close you and Jakob are. I was angry. Things have been hard at home …’

  ‘I know,’ he answered, still not looking at her.

  She did not speak.

  ‘We’re thinking of preparing a second volume,’ he said. ‘We’ve met a wonderful storyteller who knows many new tales. Her name is Dorothea, just like you. Dorothea Viehmann. She came to our door selling butter and eggs, and stayed to tell us stories. Perhaps a second volume would draw more attention to the first.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Dortchen replied.

  ‘It’s true some of the stories are rather rough around the edges,’ Wilhelm said. ‘Not everyone is a natural storyteller. I remember some of the stories Friederike Mannel sent us. They were just a long list of “and she said and then he said and then she said and then he said …” – it sounded just dreadful. I had to add a little detail, just to make it flow better.’

  ‘Giving them a little bit of a polish surely wouldn’t do any harm,’ Dortchen said. ‘Like cleaning the silver at home. Everything gets so black with tarnish after a while that it looks dull and ugly. But when I give it a good rub with some horsetail reeds, it comes up looking as pretty as anything. Surely it’d be the same with your stories?’

  ‘That’s a good way to look at it,’ Wilhelm said. ‘I’m not really changing the essence of the stories, just trying to bring back their natural beauty and shine.’ He turned to her impulsively. ‘Oh, Dortchen, do you know any more tales? The ones you’ve already told me are among the best in our collection. If we could have more of those beautiful old tales, full of magic and romance, I’m sure the second volume will sell better than the first.’

  ‘I don’t know … I’d need to think.’

  ‘Tales that might appeal to children,’ he prompted her. ‘Funny ones.’

  But the only story Dortchen could think of was sad.

  ‘Will you tell it to me anyway?’ Wilhelm said.

  Dortchen’s longing to be alone with Wilhelm, to have him watch her with his intent dark gaze, and listen closely to every word she spoke, was so strong that she felt herself weaken. ‘Father mustn’t know.’

  He hesitated. A gentleman did not encourage a young woman to have clandestine meetings with him, even for so wholesome a reason as telling children’s tales. Dortchen could see the struggle on his face.

  ‘Where can we meet?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Not in the garden – it’s too cold.’ They were silent for a moment, thinking. Neither suggested the Grimms’ apartment, or a friend’s house. Both wanted to meet alone.

  ‘In the stable, tomorrow morning,’ she said at last. ‘I can work while I talk.’

  He nodded, tipped his hat to her and walked quickly away. Both knew they had been together far too long.

  The next day, Wilhelm sat on a low barrel in the stable, his paper and inkpot on a larger barrel, writing down the story Dortchen told him as she fed and watered the animals.

  ‘There was once a little child whose mother gave her a small bowl of milk and bread every day, and the child sat in the yard to eat it. When she began to eat, a toad came creeping out of a crevice in the wall, dipped its little head in the dish and ate with her. The child took great pleasure in this.

  ‘One day, when the toad did not come at once, she cried, “Toad, Toad, come hither swiftly, come, thou tiny thing, thou shalt have thy crumbs of bread, thou shalt have thy milk.” Then the toad came in haste and enjoyed its milk. It even showed gratitude, for it brought the child all kinds of pretty things from its hidden treasures – bright stones, pearls and golden playthings. The toad only drank the milk, however, and left the bread alone.’

  Dortchen began to rake up the old straw. ‘Then one day the child took its little
spoon and struck the toad gently on its head, saying, “Eat the breadcrumbs as well, little thing.” The mother, who was standing in the kitchen, heard the child talking to someone. When she saw that the little girl was striking a toad with her spoon, she ran out with a log of wood and killed the good little creature.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Wilhelm commented.

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Is that the end?’

  ‘No, it gets sadder yet.’

  Wilhelm primed his quill with ink and waited expectantly. Dortchen leant on her rake. ‘From that time forth, a change came over the child. As long as the toad had eaten with her, she had grown tall and strong, but now she lost her pretty rosy cheeks and wasted away. It was not long before the funeral bird began to cry in the night, and the red-breast began to collect little branches and leaves for a wreath. Soon afterwards the child lay on her funeral bier.’

  ‘You’re right, that is sadder.’ Wilhelm blew on the page to help the ink dry. ‘But somehow rather beautiful. Do you know another?’

  ‘I thought last night of another tale I knew,’ she said. She spoke truthfully, for she had lain awake half the night struggling with her desire to see Wilhelm and her fear that her father would find out.

  ‘Can I come again tomorrow?’ he asked eagerly.

  She hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. Carefully, she opened the stable door into the alley, taking care not to make any noise. As Wilhelm went out, he caught her fingers and drew her close, bending his head to kiss her. Dortchen turned her face away so that he kissed her cheek and not her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right, we must be careful.’

  Dortchen could not get away the next morning, for the shop was busy and her father wanted her help in the stillroom. The following day, Dortchen went to the stable, hoping to see Wilhelm but trying not to hope. She found herself chore after chore to do and was just about to give up when she heard a soft knock on the stable door. She unbarred the door and let Wilhelm in. He took off his hat and bowed, and set his writing box on the barrel.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday,’ she said, unable to look at him.

  ‘I’m just glad you’re here today,’ he answered. She was very aware of his hands unpacking his quills and penknife, and the way his curls hung over his pale forehead. It was dim and gloomy in the stable, and rather cramped. They had no choice but to sit near each other. Dortchen took down a bridle from a hook, needing some kind of barrier between them, and began to clean it.

  ‘It’s rather long, the story I’m going to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t mind. I have all the time in the world.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful, though. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall – I’ve loved all your stories,’ he said, dipping his quill in the inkpot.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a man who was about to set forth on a long journey,’ Dortchen began. ‘He asked his three daughters what he should bring for them when he returned. The oldest one wanted pearls, the second one wanted diamonds, but the third one said, “Father dear, I would like a singing, springing lark.” The father said that he should do his best, and then he set forth.

  ‘Now, when the time came for him to return home, the man had bought pearls and diamonds, but he had searched in vain for a singing, springing lark. This made him sad, for his youngest daughter was his favourite. His path led him through a forest, in the middle of which there was a splendid castle. Near the castle was a great tree, and at the very top of the tree he saw a singing, springing lark.

  ‘He began to climb the tree, but a lion jumped up and roared until the leaves on the trees trembled. “I will eat up anyone who tries to steal my singing, springing lark,” the lion cried. The man was very sorry and promised not to take the lark, but the lion said, “Nothing can save you unless you promise me whatever first meets you upon your arrival at home.”

  ‘Of course, it was his youngest daughter who first greeted him, and so she had to go to the castle in the forest and give herself to the lion. The lion was truly an enchanted prince. By day he was a lion, and all his people became lions with him, but by night they had their natural human form. So the girl stayed with the lion, remaining awake at night and sleeping by day.’

  Dortchen found it hard to look at Wilhelm as she spoke this part of the tale. Her face grew hot. She bent all her attention to the bridle, aware of Wilhelm’s eyes on her.

  She went on with the story, and after a moment Wilhelm’s pen began to follow her again. ‘One day the prince came and said, “Tomorrow there’s a feast at your father’s house because your sister is getting married. If you would like to go, my lions will take you.” The girl said yes, as she wanted to see her father.

  ‘Later, when her second sister was to be married, the girl persuaded the lion to come with her. The lion, however, said that that would be too dangerous for him, for if a ray from a burning light were to fall on him there, he would be transformed into a dove and would have to fly with doves for seven years. “Oh, do come with me,” she said. “I will protect you, and guard you from all light.”

  ‘But despite all her care, a thread of light touched the prince and he was transformed into a dove. The dove said to her, “For seven years I must fly about into the world. Every seven steps I will let fall a drop of red blood and a white feather. These will show you the way, and if you follow this trail you can redeem me.” Then the dove flew out the door. She followed him, and every seven steps a drop of red blood and a little white feather fell down, showing her the way.

  ‘When seven years were almost passed and the girl thought she must soon be reunited with her lover, the dove disappeared. The girl climbed up to the golden sun, followed the moon’s silver path and called to the four winds, and at last she discovered her lover. He was once again a lion but was fighting to the death with a serpent, who was truly the daughter of a sorcerer. With the help of the wind, the girl was able to save her lover and return him to the shape of a man.

  ‘But the sorcerer’s daughter whisked him away, and the girl learnt they were soon to be married. Undaunted, she followed him and, with the help of gifts from the sun and the moon, was able to break the spell on him and win him back from the sorcerer’s daughter.

  ‘From that time on, they lived happily until they died,’ Dortchen concluded, and she got up to hang the gleaming bridle on the wall. Her heart was twisting inside her. When she had been a little girl, ‘The Singing, Springing Lark’ had been her favourite story. She had vowed that she too would follow her one true love wherever it took her, even to the ends of the earth, following his drops of blood and his fallen feathers.

  ‘That was the most beautiful story I have ever heard,’ Wilhelm said. He wiped his quill clean, then got up and stretched. Dortchen stepped away, pressing her back into the wall. ‘I like it much better than “La Belle et la Bête”, which is a French tale that’s rather similar. It does not have the girl’s quest, though, or the celestial gifts. It is just the sort of tale I wanted.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Dortchen said, in a low voice.

  He took a step closer towards her, his eyes intent on her face. ‘She was very brave, that girl.’

  Dortchen could not reply or look him in the eye, so she dropped her gaze to his mouth.

  He smiled and reached for her. ‘Just one kiss,’ he murmured, his breath brushing against her skin, making it tingle. ‘I’ve been able to think of nothing else.’

  She raised her face to his, unable to resist him. She had loved him for so long that it seemed impossible to stop. He kissed her, and Dortchen poured down before him like golden silk unravelling.

  The sound of the door handle turning flung them apart. Dortchen paled and made an urgent movement. Wilhelm bounded over the rail and into the pigsty, pressing himself against the wall just as the door opened and Herr Wild came in. ‘Dortchen, whatever are you doing out here for so long?’ he demanded.

  ‘I … I was mucki
ng out the stable,’ she said, taking the rake into her hand.

  ‘You’ve not made much progress,’ he said, his eyes narrow and suspicious. Dortchen could feel from the heat in her cheeks that she was blushing furiously. In the corner of her eye she saw Wilhelm’s writing box, sitting half-packed on the barrel. She took a few quick steps forward, hiding it from her father’s line of sight.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m … I’m not feeling well.’

  Her father’s expression changed. ‘You’re feverish? You do seem hot. Do your limbs ache, and your head?’

  She nodded.

  ‘May the Lord save us,’ he cried. ‘I had hoped you would be spared. You must come back to bed immediately.’ He came forward and took her arm, and she tried not to flinch.

  Meekly, she allowed him to lead her from the stable, closing the door behind her. She felt strange, giddy and light-headed, with a hot, melting sensation deep in her pelvis that unsettled her. She allowed herself to be put to bed, and drank the willowbark tincture her father gave her. But she could not rest. Her limbs twisted back and forth in the bed and she kept replaying the scene in the stable over and over in her head – the feel of Wilhelm’s mouth on hers, the touch of his hands on her body, his body pressed so close to hers that every inch of her skin had been branded with its fire.

  In the middle of the night Dortchen woke from a dream in which a man’s body was looming over hers in the darkness, holding her down, forcing her. She was shaking, her breath panting, her skin sticky with sweat. Was it her father in the dream, or the man she had loved since she had first laid eyes on him?

  Dortchen did not know. She did not dare sleep again, and lay with hot eyes till dawn.

  THE BEAST WITHIN

  January 1813

  For three days Dortchen stayed inside, creeping from one task to another, so confused by all she was feeling and thinking that it was hard to frame a response to her mother’s inconsequent conversation, or to remember how many cups of flour she had already put into a bowl. Then it was Sunday, and she knew she would have to go to church and see Wilhelm in the crowd. The thought frightened her, but her father felt her forehead and her pulse and pronounced her quite well.