The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘I’d so hate for him to be lonely,’ she said, when she could speak again.

  ‘I have a job now. Perhaps the prince will make me his librarian. It has a much better salary. And the second volume of tales will be published soon. Maybe they will sell—’

  ‘Once the war is over, everyone will want to read beautiful stories of courage and triumph …’

  ‘And love …’ He deepened the kiss.

  ‘Surely …’

  ‘Yes.’ He tasted tears on her cheeks. ‘Don’t cry, Dortchen, I can’t bear it.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Wilhelm, you don’t know … You don’t realise … If you only knew—’

  ‘What?’

  But she couldn’t tell him. He kissed her again but she turned her face away. ‘Wilhelm … whatever happens, I want you to know I truly love you.’

  They clung together in the shadows, then Dortchen drew away. ‘I have to go. If my father knew I was here …’ She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Don’t let him hurt you,’ he said. ‘I wish …’

  She shook her head, picked up the baskets of apples and went through the gate. Once upon a time, when wishing was still of use …

  Her father was waiting for her in the kitchen, his stick swinging in his hand. She had no time to run for safety, no time to find some way to protect herself. He set himself to prove that he was still her master. She could do nothing but fall before him. She thought this time he might kill her.

  Afterwards, she wished that he had.

  AN EARLY GRAVE

  November 1814

  He seemed to want to drink himself into an early grave. Perhaps it was the only way that he might forget what he had done.

  He began to find it hard to climb the stairs. He made Dortchen come to him in his study. His feet and legs were so swollen that he could not pull his boots on. He began to wear his carpet slippers even in the daytime. Often he did not shave. He would wear his frockcoat over his nightgown and shuffle about the house, shouting at Dortchen to bring him more brandy.

  When he was asleep, she would make more of the sleeping tincture, stirring it around and around. ‘Make him sleep, make him sleep, make him sleep, make him sleep,’ she chanted under her breath. She worried he would notice how empty the jars of skullcap, chamomile, and valerian were, but now he only went into the stillroom to search for brandy and laudanum. He noticed little else.

  She did her best but there was never enough time. Each day was a long ordeal, and each night a misery. Fear and hopelessness were her chains.

  His face was red. His eyes sank into puffy eyelids. Soon his hands were so swollen that his wedding ring cut deep into his flesh. Dortchen had to try to get it off with soapy water. It hurt him so much that he slapped her across the face, sending suds flying. He wheezed when he walked. When Dortchen emptied his chamber pot, she saw that his urine was a strange, dark colour. It smelt bad. He smelt bad.

  Autumn passed. At least there was less work in the garden in the winter. She kept herself busy pickling cabbage and bottling plums, sometimes working long past midnight by the light of a sputtering candle. He rarely came to the kitchen. If she went to bed, he might hear her footsteps and call to her. It was better to sleep on the floor by the kitchen fire. She lay on the old rag rugs, rubbing bits of fabric between her fingers.

  Nightmares haunted her.

  He got sicker. The brandy no longer seemed to work. He was angry, but weak, panting, thrashing about, unable to catch her. Dortchen polished all the jars in the stillroom, turning them so the labels were perfectly aligned. She would not clean the study. He lay there on his couch, calling for her, banging on the floor with his stick. She brought him soup and took away his chamber pot.

  Once, finding him sleeping, slack-jawed, with saliva creeping down his silvered jowls, she imagined putting the cushion over his face. Her hands clenched by her side. When she stirred the tisane, muttering, ‘Make him sleep, make him sleep,’ she imagined saying, ‘Make him die, make him die.’ It would be easy enough. A handful of crushed nightshade. A few monkshood flowers. Some white baneberries. No one would suspect her. Everyone knew he was sick. But she could not do it. He was her father.

  It snowed one night, and he was restless, crying out, unable to breathe. The only way he could sleep was sitting up. His face was now so swollen that she could scarcely recognise him at all.

  She called the doctor. Dropsy, he said. He prescribed some medicine. Dortchen had to measure it all out herself. It came from the locked cupboard, the one where the most dangerous drugs were kept. Her father felt her taking the keys from his pocket. He struck out, making her ears ring. When she brought the medicine, he would not drink it. He thought she meant to poison him. So she sent a note to Gretchen, asking her to come and help nurse him.

  Reluctantly, Gretchen came. When she tried to give him the medicine, he struck it from her hand. It spilt all over her silk dress. ‘Well, that’s the last time I do that,’ Gretchen said.

  ‘Rudolf,’ her father said. ‘Get Rudolf.’

  So Dortchen wrote to her brother and told him to come home, giving Gretchen the letter to post. She dared not leave him even to walk to the post office.

  The week before Christmas was long and lonely. He was much worse. He could not eat. His swollen belly pained him. His lungs were wet, his breathing ragged.

  Rudolf and Mia came home. It was such a relief to have them back that Dortchen could scarcely speak, her body shaking with tears. Mia flew into her arms, crying, ‘But you’re so thin and pale. Have you been sick too?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ Rudolf said, after he had examined their father. ‘Why didn’t you write sooner, Dortchen? We would have come if we’d known.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Well, we’re home now,’ Mia said. ‘And you’re to do nothing, Dortchen. Sit and rest.’

  Dortchen could not. It felt too strange. She went to the garden and cut holly branches and hung them over the mantelpiece, and brought snowy fir branches home from the forest. When Mia decorated them with gilded fir cones and angels, she almost managed a smile.

  Her father died on Christmas Day. Dortchen sat beside him in her black gown, listening to his breath rasp in and out, ever more slowly. When at last it stopped altogether, it took her a while to notice.

  She stood up abruptly, casting her handkerchief over his awful, congested face. She backed away from him, then turned and ran out of the room, almost knocking Rudolf over on her way. She grabbed her bonnet and coat from the hook in the kitchen, and ran through the snowy garden, tying the ribbons under her chin. Mia called after her, but, once she began running, Dortchen did not stop. She ran out the gate and down the alley and along the Marktgasse. People stopped to stare. ‘Is everything all right, love?’ the saddler’s wife called. Dortchen shook her head and ran on.

  Soon a stitch in her side slowed her. She ran and walked, ran and walked. At last she was free of the town. She went into the winter-bare, snow-frosted woods. She went to the linden grove. There at last she could dance. There at last she could laugh out loud in her relief and her gladness. There at last she could cry.

  Wilhelm found her in the alley outside the shop’s garden. ‘Our time will come,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Love works magic.’

  Dortchen no longer believed in magic. And she certainly no longer believed in love.

  PART SEVEN

  The Singing, Springing Lark

  CASSEL

  The German Confederation of Nations, 1819–1825

  The poor girl who had wandered so far took courage and said, ‘I will continue on as far as the wind blows and as long as the cock crows, till I find him.’ She went on a long, long way, until at last she came to the castle where her sweetheart and the false princess were living together. A feast was soon to be held, to celebrate their wedding. She said, ‘God will help me still,’ and opened the little chest that the sun h
ad given her. Inside was a dress as brilliant as the sun itself. She took it out and put it on, then went up into the castle, where everyone, even the bride herself, looked at her. The bride liked the dress so well that she asked if it was for sale.

  ‘Not for money or property,’ answered the girl, ‘but for flesh and blood.’

  The bride asked what she meant. She said, ‘Let me sleep one night in the chamber where the prince sleeps.’

  At last the bride consented, but told her page to give the prince a sleeping-potion.

  That night, when the prince was asleep, the girl was led into his room. She sat down on the bed and said, ‘I have followed you for seven years. I have been to the sun and the moon and the four winds and have asked about you, and I have helped you against the dragon. Will you then forget me?’

  From ‘The Singing, Springing Lark’, a tale told by Dortchen Wild to Wilhelm Grimm on 7th January 1813

  IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

  August 1819

  ‘I am so hideous,’ Gretchen said, turning sideways so she could see the size of her extended stomach in the mirror.

  ‘Hideous is the last word anyone would use about you,’ Dortchen said. ‘You’re quite beautiful.’

  ‘I look like the side of a barn.’

  ‘You’re about to have a baby,’ Dortchen said. ‘You have to expect to be a little bigger than usual.’

  ‘A little bigger? I’m enormous. I look like I’m about to give birth to an elephant. I feel like I’m about to give birth to an elephant.’

  Dortchen came to stand beside her, looking into the mirror. She looked thin and plain and serious next to her elder sister. Her hair was screwed into a knot at the back of her head, while Gretchen’s hung in tight ringlets on either side of her face. Her sister wore a blue silk dress with puffed sleeves, a high waist and a deeply ruffled hem, with pearls about her neck and both plump wrists. Dortchen wore a shabby black gown, although five years had passed since the death of their parents. She had no money to pay for a new dress.

  ‘I wish I didn’t feel so unwell,’ Gretchen said, returning to her chaise longue, where she lay down and ate another meringue. Her ankles were grossly swollen above her embroidered silk slippers. The sight gave Dortchen a sharp twinge of memory. She turned away, trying to steady her breathing.

  ‘Dortchen, be a dear and tell the governess to take the children to the park. I cannot bear their noise.’

  The sound of distant childish laughter barely penetrated the elegant panelled doors, but Dortchen did not protest. She went as directed to the schoolroom, where two little girls in ruffled white frocks sat drawing at a table. Four sturdy boys lay on the floor, playing with tin soldiers. A stern-faced young woman sat darning stockings by the window. Like Dortchen, she was dressed in a plain black dress, though hers was rather less faded.

  ‘Ida, I’m sorry, but Frau Schmerfeld has asked that you take the children to the park. She needs to rest.’

  Ida looked at the great basket of mending still to be done and sighed. ‘Very well,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Ottilie and Sophie, get your bonnets and gloves, please. Adolf, Karl, Julius and Friedrich, get your coats.’

  ‘But it’s so hot,’ Julius complained, sitting up. He was wearing a pair of tight blue high-waisted trousers that buttoned over his jacket. The older two were dressed in similar outfits, with floppy lace collars. All looked most uncomfortable. ‘Please, Ida, don’t make us put coats on as well.’

  ‘You can’t go out without your coats,’ she said. ‘But, if you like, we can take your model ships and sail them in the pond.’

  Julius whooped with joy and ran off to find his boat. Friedrich, an angelic looking two-year-old with a head of pale golden curls, lifted his arms to Dortchen. ‘Uppy, Aunty Dortchy.’ Dortchen lifted him up, and he clamped both legs about her hip. ‘Come park.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetling, I can’t today. Your mother’s sick and needs me to look after her.’

  He frowned. ‘Mama always sick.’

  ‘She’ll be well again soon,’ Dortchen said. She tried to pass him over to Ida but he clamped his legs harder, clinging to her with both chubby arms and burying his face in her neck. She cuddled him close. ‘How about we go downstairs? You can give your Mama a kiss goodbye.’

  He nodded his curly head. Dortchen said teasingly, ‘Why don’t you walk with me? You’re too big to carry all the way now. And I’d like to have such a handsome gentleman escort me.’

  Friedrich consented to be set down on his sturdy legs and walked alongside Dortchen, holding her hand. He was dressed in a frilly white dress and bib. His curls hung down to his shoulders.

  Dortchen brought him into the drawing room, where her sister was flicking through a fashion periodical. ‘You’ve been such an age,’ Gretchen began, then she saw her son. ‘Oh, hello, Friedrich. Aren’t you going to the park?’

  Friedrich ran towards her and climbed up on the chaise longue. ‘I’m such a handsome gentleman,’ he told her proudly.

  ‘Is that so? Don’t you know that vanity is a deadly sin? Dortchen, bring me my embroidery scissors.’

  Her heart sinking, Dortchen did as she was told. Gretchen took her son’s curls in one hand and chopped them off with the scissors. They fell to the floor in pale gold circles.

  Friedrich watched them in interest, then shook his shorn head. ‘Not so hot,’ he said approvingly. He saw the plate of meringues and seized one.

  ‘Manners,’ Gretchen said, taking it from his hand. ‘What do you say?’

  His face had fallen, but he looked at her hopefully and said, ‘Please?’

  She gave him the meringue, saying, ‘Go and eat it outside, I don’t want your sticky hands ruining my silk.’ As the little boy ran to join his brothers in the front hall, she said, ‘Would you sweep up the mess, Dortchen?’

  Dortchen knelt down to pick up the fallen curls. ‘Do you want to keep one, as a memento?’ she asked, holding them out to her sister.

  ‘Good heavens, no. If I kept every tooth or lock of my children’s hair, I’d have to move to a larger house. Not that I’d mind, I must admit. Really, with six children and another on the way, you’d think Ferdy would buy us something a little more spacious. We’re all on top of each other here.’

  As Dortchen sprinkled some lavender water on a handkerchief for her sister, she wondered how Gretchen could speak so. The Schmerfelds lived in one of the biggest and grandest houses in Cassel. Built on an elegant square in the new French quarter, it had nearly a dozen bedrooms, not counting the servants’ quarters in the attic. It had a pleasant sunny garden to the rear, in which white roses grew inside neat green hedges, and a long ballroom with gilded chandeliers. Gretchen had her own dressing room, and a bathroom with a huge enamel bath that took the housemaids a dozen buckets of hot water to fill. She even had a separate room for her chamber pot, which was hidden under a cushioned seat in an ornately carved chair. Dortchen could not understand how her sister could live in such a beautiful house and still not be happy.

  She’s getting close to term, Dortchen reminded herself. She must be so hot and uncomfortable.

  Certainly Gretchen was looking hot in the face, and her fingers were so swollen that Dortchen had to ease off her rings with some soapy water. This caused another frisson of memory. Dortchen pushed it away determinedly. She never thought of the past at all now, if she could help it.

  The last five years had not been easy for anyone. In early 1815, Napoléon had escaped from Elba, the tiny island on which he had been imprisoned after his abdication. He had marched on Paris, gathering men with every mile. The French king, Louis XVIII, had fled, and Napoléon had been carried into the Tuileries Palace on the shoulders of a cheering crowd. Soon Europe was at war again.

  As long lines of soldiers once again marched through the German landscape, the sunset skies were as red as fire from horizon to horizon, as if the very gates of hell had been flung open. The newspapers said the vivid sunsets were the result of an erupting volcano in Java
, which had killed thousands of people. Dortchen could only think the fiery evening skies a portent of evil.

  In mid-June, the French army had been defeated by the British and the Prussians at the small village of Waterloo, in Belgium, at the cost of many thousands of men. Napoléon surrendered and was sent to the most isolated island in the world, the tiny rock of St Helena, in the South Atlantic Ocean.

  Dortchen had been most relieved but was also filled with compassion. How must Napoléon feel? she wondered. To have ruled the world, and now be alone, exiled, living in a hut on a rock. What anguish he must feel.

  The following year of 1816 was called the Year Without a Summer. The eruption of the volcano in Java the previous year had filled the world’s atmosphere with ash. The sky was leaden and grey every day, and streaked with blood red every evening. Dortchen would hang out the clean white sheets in the morning and bring them in that afternoon grey and speckled with black.

  The harvest had failed and food prices had soared. Famine soon followed. Starving families came to Cassel from the country, begging on street corners. Soon there were riots in front of bakeries and angry rampages through the markets. Granaries were looted and set on fire, and shops were robbed. Rudolf slept in the apothecary’s shop, his battered old musket beside him.

  The next winter was the hardest Dortchen had ever known. They lived on thin soup and bread made from acorns, and saved every thaler they could to prevent their shop from falling into bankruptcy.

  Life was even harder for the Grimm family. Jakob had returned from the Vienna Congress jobless once more, and so had applied for the position of second librarian at the royal palace – the job Wilhelm had been hoping to receive. Lotte said Wilhelm did not mind; he was just so glad to have his brother home.

  The two elder brothers were once again supporting the whole family. Ludwig and Karl had returned to Cassel after the war, and Ferdinand constantly wrote begging letters from Berlin, where he was employed by Jakob and Wilhelm’s publisher for a pittance.