Anyhow, I did not mind the theft of this plant, but the sneakiness upset me. I felt he should have asked for it. In addition, the lame explanation the husband gave me after I caught him, did not impress me. He said that his young wife would die unless she could eat my rampions. There are many conditions of which people die, but not being able to eat stolen rampions is surely not one of them.
I was about to call the constables, when I noticed her pregnancy. I then turned away from her and found something to do at a rosebush, because it was hard to hide my tears. She had the one thing I most wanted and could never have.
For a long time I prayed and prayed to St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary, who reputedly helped her namesake, Austrian Anne, later queen of France in this matter. And St. Anne indeed did provide the help the queen asked: after twenty-three years of anxious waiting, she finally gave birth to the Sun King, Louis XIV. I thought she might listen to my pleas as well. Apparently, she is not a saint who answers prayers in a hurry. Or perhaps she did not realize that I had an aging husband and did not have a quarter of a century at my disposal to wait around. He was already halfway in the grave and I was in no condition to wait much longer for the blessed event. After my aged husband died, it was well that I stopped praying for a child. I then shelved my burning desire into the most secret place of my heart, and accepted that it was not meant to be. There the desire stayed for many years, keeping company with the rest of my unfulfilled dreams.
My neighbor’s rounded belly and that particular pose pregnant women adopt: hips slightly thrust forward, hands protectively folded over the treasure they carried, awoke the slumbering dream, and it was particularly painful because of its very impossibility as far as I was concerned. She would soon have a child, a joy denied me. My anger suddenly evaporated. For the sake of this baby its mother had to be healthy and happy. If she wished to eat rampions, I was glad to offer basketfuls of it to her, and invited him to take from my garden what they needed, be it rampions, or salad greens, parsley or whatever. I did not have to say it twice, but he only took that garlicky plant.
Rampions are rather short-lived in the spring, and I was glad when he no longer showed up for his daily harvest. The lily-of-the–valley was poking up its spiked and highly poisonous leaves, which resemble those of the rampions .I was worried that he, not the brightest type I ever met, would mistake the plants and poison his wife and the baby. I also realized that I was becoming too involved and was starting to behave irrationally, so with great effort I eventually managed to banish them from my mind and from my garden.
By midsummer the baby, a girl, arrived, and it seemed that by that time our relation ended completely; however, a few weeks after the baby was born, the man knocked on my door. His shifty gaze told me he was up to no good. Without preliminaries he came to the point. They are moving away to try their luck elsewhere and have no use for the child, whom they did not want in the first place, he told me. She would be a millstone around their neck, so they decided that I could have her, if I wished. Otherwise… He made a sickening gesture with his palms upturned and waited for my reaction. He got it all right. Without much thinking, I consented.
“Here is Rapunzel-Rampion to you,” he grinned wickedly, as he handed over the dirty bundle. I hated the obnoxious name, which had the connotation of garlic flavored thievery. First I considered the names Persinette or Petrosinella, but ultimately decided on Annabella. I selected Anna for the first part of her name in honor of St. Anna, who after all did listen to my prayers in her own fashion, and added Bella, because she was so beautiful.
She became the center of my life. I never understood how two such impossible people could create something so perfect, so beautiful. Annabella was every mother’s dream come true. Her tiny dimpled feet were still curling in the embryonic position and the delicate arms waved undecidedly as if trying to catch something, perhaps the mystery of birth. Her eyes were blue as the summer sky and had that heavenly clarity only children’s eye have. And her hair! I saw enough babies to know that most of them face the world as baldheaded as Asiatic monks, but this wonder child already had hair, which was quite long and as blond as the sun’s light on fields of wheat. I cherished her. She was the reason, the joy, the magic, the fulfillment of my life. I watched over her, taught her everything I knew, dressed her like a princess, washed and combed her beautiful hair, and planned the perfect future for her. When she was around me the world was faultless.
To tell the truth, as she grew from baby to child, we had some difficulties in our otherwise sunny relationship. Nothing serious, but thinking back with the clear hindsight that age brings, I can now see the warning signs. She exhibited a strong streak of stubbornness, often verging on rudeness, and at the same time, she could not take corrections or limitations with grace. There was also a hint of shiftiness in her, which saddened me. Whenever I caught her in some childish lie or sneakiness, I could not help but see her father in her. When I scolded her, the standard answer was: “You are not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do.” That hurt.
Yet these incidents and our arguments were not serious, never got out of hand and were often rather irrational. For example, we had the issue of her hair, which was long, although not as long as it was later reported. It was strong, but not nearly as strong as hemp to support the weight of a man who would supposedly use it to climb up into the tower. It was undeniable very beautiful and very long. She loved to wear it open, tumbling down her back like a thick, golden veil. On the other hand I always felt that this richly cascading shining hair carried the promise of disaster. Perhaps I was unreasonable, or else a clairvoyant with a tendency toward witchery. Or more likely some early memory of a drama, caused by long, blond hair never left me. Overprotective as I was, I could not stand to see that flowing, wild hair on her, which might bring disaster. I insisted braiding it and she hated that. There were tears and arguments.
Long before Annabella came into my life, I heard about the water nymph Lorelei, or as some called her: Lure-ley, who used to sit in the afternoons on a steep rock at the River Rhine, not far from my home. She kept combing her long golden hair, thus bewitching and luring hundreds of boatmen to their death at that very treacherous bend of the Rhine .I still shudder at the memory of Lorelei and her senseless or perhaps unconscious wickedness, which sent so many men to death. The story always disturbed me, even after a few centuries later Heinrich Heine softened the memory with the lovely poem about her:
“…The air is cool and it darkens, and calmly flows the Rhine. The mountain peaks are sparkling in the Sun’s evening shine. And yonder sits a maiden, the fairest of the fair
With gold in her garments glittering and she combs her golden hair. With a golden comb she combs it and a wild song singeth she That melts the heart with wondrous and powerful longing…
And of course, the boatmen, fascinated by the spectacle of her, giving in to their wondrous and powerful longing, no longer paid attention to the dangerous water, and wrecking their ship was inevitable. The thought of associating my daughter with that mindless, naturally blond nymph abhorred me and I wanted no part of it; therefore, I insisted on braiding it, which she resented We had some spectacular scenes. Ironically, in the end that very braid was the means of her downfall—whether you believe the reports of the Grimm brothers about the affair, or my own account of it. In the end it made no difference.
Slowly I was beginning to realize that she is a difficult child, who is capable to cause grief and will very likely break my heart. In due time she has done exactly that. Perhaps I should have kept the truth of her birth a secret. I probably could have had more authority if she believed that I was her birthmother. It pained me that she clung to the memory of a woman, who traded her for a few bunches of garlicky herbs, then left her behind and went to seek her own happiness and forgot her. I gave my heart to her, but it was apparently not enough. Annabella rebelled against me, even though my love was true, and I only cared about her welfare. I was also wondering, whether her ba
d streak was a case of genetic inheritance, or did it come about because I spoiled her to the point where I could no longer expect common sense, politeness, let alone love.
Inevitably, puberty arrived, and with it a young man. She thought he was a prince, not an uncommon delusion with girls experiencing first love and hormones. Mind, I was not jealous of her youth and beauty, as some said later; nor was I planning to marry her to a rich old goat for her to repeat my own miserable fate. And I most certainly did not groom her to be my devoted slave in my old age, even though I was well aware that such arrangements were rather common in those times. Girls were mere pawns then, callously bartered in marriage, or else they were just handy conveniences to secure household help or geriatric care. However, I knew from firsthand experience that in the end such base dealings bring only misery to everyone involved. Shakespeare, who was almost my contemporary, knew the pain when he made Blanche cry out in a similar situation as she was torn between the Dauphine, and her uncle, the king:
“They whirl asunder and dismember me; Whoever wins, on that side I shall lose.” I did not want that for her. She was not to be a dismembered victim of people with selfish interests. Annabella could marry, or stay single, just as she wished, but I would never permit that she be the victim of somebody’s convenience or fleeting whim. Because of her youth and inexperience I could not trust her choice. She was most certainly far too good for that immature boy, whom she considered the perfect specimen of human evolution. Perhaps almost overnight I was turning into the much-dreaded prototype of an evil would-bemother-in-law. Remember, I had a beautiful dream for my beautiful daughter. I wanted her to be wedded to a good man, who would cherish her, support and respect her. Yes, selfishly I was also dreaming about grandchildren, joy and laughter in my house.
I fought her and for her, because I did not want her to be involved in an irrevocable mess with a silly youngster at the very beginning of her adult life. In those times virginity was the absolute high treasure; without it, a girl had no value at all on the marriage market. I was going to see to it that she did not squander it on this pimply boy-child, who had no skills, no plans, nor any income, whose skin on his face could make a dermatologist rich. He was apparently just traveling aimlessly across the country and I am asking you in all seriousness, what decent mother would agree to entrust her only child to such an irresponsible kid?
We had harsh, bitter words, and finally for her protection I moved her to my country estate. She was not locked in a tower, as was later reported, and her hair was not at all as long as the story would have you believe, but we were a safe distance from her pimply prince. Or so I believed.
I was grateful that I had the means to do it, that I owned this second estate away from town. I believed that she was safe there, but sadly, country living did not satisfy either of us. Once we settled in, terminal boredom descended, and we were both restless. She on account of her acne decorated prince, and I missed the more civilized routines of the town. Way before my time, Aristotle already said that Man is a political animal, and of course as time passed the statement was grossly misunderstood. What he really meant was that man is such an animal that he feels most comfortable in the “polis”, in the city, and in that special sense he is “political”, or one, who is a confirmed city-dweller. He wishes to live there, because he feels that only the city can offer a truly civilized lifestyle. I fully agree with Aristotle and could never feel at home in the countryside. Apparently neither could she. Whenever I had to return to town for some shopping, or to take care of necessary business I was happy, but also felt guilty on account of leaving her behind. During my short visits to town, I was revived and recharged, but did not dare take her along, because the temptation would have been too strong for her. My poor daughter continued to suffer the numbing and relentless boredom of country life without even an occasional relief. Or so I thought.
The resourcefulness of young love outdistances the anguish of a mother. On one occasion I came home earlier from my excursion than was my custom, and obviously earlier than she expected me. Unsuspecting, I rushed to her room, because I missed her so much-- and then I froze. Before I entered her room, I heard a voice, a young, but undeniably male voice saying: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy golden hair…”
My heart seemed to hesitate for a second, then foolishly skipped a few beats and then it started to race madly. Surely, I am mistaken, this cannot be… Paradoxically during the very first seconds it was not even his presence that infuriated me, but the fact that he dared to call her by the despised name her shifty father had given her. Rapunzel, indeed!
Of course, I knew that I was not mistaken, but nevertheless I was stubbornly denying it. Time stood still, or raced. I could not tell if I stood at the door a long time, or rushed in the moment I heard the hated voice. As in a confused dream I tore open the door and there they were, so entranced with each other that they did not even notice my entrance. She sat in her light dressing gown on the side of her bed and smiled radiantly as she lifted her arms to undo her braids, as he told her to do. I have never seen her so happy. He knelt before her looking up at her. His still unformed, pimply face was transformed into something almost beautiful by the “wondrous and powerful longing” the boatmen experienced when looking at Lorelei sitting on her rock.
I no longer recall the details of the encounter. I suppose my soul left my body temporarily. I was hot and cold at the same time, and there was the deafening roar of a mighty waterfall in my ears. I only recall one screaming, senseless prayer rush out from the very depth of my soul, “Lord God, make it so that it is not true.”
A magnificent, all-consuming, searing hatred swept over me and I wanted to rip him into pieces with my bare hands. How dare he touch her! How dare he separate her from me by using that hateful name! I suppose I made a step toward him, and I suppose my intention was clearly written on my face. He saw his fate coming at him and paled. Annabella screamed then and grabbed my arm. She was magnificent in her passionate love and in the role of a protecting Fury. I had murder in my heart, but so did she. Never mind that neither of us had any weapons. And he, what did that cowardly, supposedly royal boy do? Saving his sorry little ass, he jumped out the window, straight into a wild tangle of thorny bushes. His inhuman screams could not come from the fall, I knew that. The window was not high up, which probably gave him the “courage” in the first place to jump out .Later I heard that the thorns put out his eyesight. Well, I suppose that was pain enough for him to scream loudly to be heard in the next seven counties. I would like to report that I am noble enough to have felt compassion then, but that would be a crass lie.
She cried then. Huge teardrops cascaded down her lovely, distressed face, but I could not help her. My own life was shattered, and I could not find the healing words. We both faced a situation which we considered a tragedy from our own, and therefore different and very subjective point of view and we did not know how to move on. Something broke between us and it was never mended.
Of course, I would handle the situation differently now so many years later, but saying it in retrospect is pointless. What happened, happened, and nothing could undo it.
For a long time we heard nothing about him, except that he went about moaning about his tragic fate and told it to all, who would listen. She floated around the house like a warmed-over ghost, but did not attempt to remedy the situation. The same was true of me. I grew old overnight and lost interest in life. My beautiful masterpiece was soiled, shattered, violated, and worthless. And then one day she was gone. She left me without a word, without an explanation. Her time was up, and she moved on.
The rest is history.
They married, his eyes healed, supposedly from her compassionate tears, and they were happy. It turned out that after all, he was a real prince. I failed as a mother and also as a prophet.
OK, so I was biased. OK, I overreacted. I lacked the skill to handle the situation as a mature adult should, but I loved her, perhaps more than was good for her. Ra
ised in that time and in those circumstances, I was sincerely convinced that losing her virginity was the greatest loss for her. I was also convinced that the sneaky, cowardly, youngster was not a fit partner for her-- prince or not.
I wouldn’t know about all the details of their life, or about their supposedly happy marriage, which according to fairy tale tradition lasted until the day they died. I was unaware of all that, because I died soon after she left me. Some say I had a broken heart, but maybe it was just tuberculosis.
On this stars-spangled October night, my ghost perching on the tree, I want to cry. If it were physically possible to cry for a ghost I would cry until no more tears and no sorrows are left. Do you know why? Because finally I understand that the worst part of grief is the impossibility to bring back the lost time and the lost opportunity to patch up what was broken. With the last shovelful of earth on the grave the chance of bringing about reconciliation and absolution dies. There is no closure. The advice is, coming far too late, what you can do today while alive, do not put off until tomorrow, when you are already dead and incapable of fixing broken relationships. I missed that. As a wise man once said, the road to hell is built of unresolved conflicts, and missed opportunities.
Oh yes, those were different times, different social and moral norms and in that framework I was right, absolutely right—but went about it the wrong way, and so lost her. With the maturity of about six hundred years to my credit, I would go about it differently now. At that time of my life I fumbled, but let me say in my defense I did what I thought was right.
She too is long dead. Still I pray that at one point, perhaps when her own child reached puberty, she was able to realize that I was not a witch, and that I loved her with the kind of love that only mothers have. My love might be called selfish by progressive psychologists, but it is nevertheless the longest lasting and best love of all, because it is unconditional.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 5
