by A. S. Byatt
There was a source of light behind the curtain, limelight mixed with rays of crimson, pink, sky-blue and deep green. Other members of the audience crept in and stood, getting their bearings. Music began, a faint high twanging, a wistful fluting. Wolfgang said to Griselda
“He never comes out before the play. The characters don’t speak. It is all light and movement. Sometimes he comes out after. He waits for complete silence. He is exigent.”
Leon said to Dorothy, who was on the end of the bench, “Are you comfortable?” He said it in English. It was the first thing he had directly said to her. Yes, thank you, she said, clasping her hands in her skirts.
The curtains opened. The Jungfrau, Thora, glided in. She was a delicate, lovely creature, with an exquisite porcelain stare and a mass of floating, silky, silvery hair. She wore a white dress and blue mantle, and her movements were thoughtful and precise.
She was presented with the glittering gold casket, by a kind of white-bearded, black-gowned wizard on bended knee. The set was a turret room, the starry sky visible through slits of windows, with high Gothic chairs. The Princess placed the casket on a table, and, when she was alone, bent over it and opened it. A tiny golden worm, sinuous and bearded, shot out of it like a firework, shimmered in the air, flew in circles, and went back to rest.
The story of Thora and the Lindwurm is the story of dragons and gold, Toby Youlgreave later explained. Dragons sleep on gold; a poetical kenning for gold is “ Wurmbett,” dragon’s bed. This dragon increased the gold in its casket and the size of its gold bed. The hidden treasure shone out of its box with brilliant ruddy light. The dragon grew, and outgrew its case. The curtains of the theatre slid together and reopened, and each time the dragon was larger, and fatter and more fearsomely bearded. Its eyes glittered ruby: its talons were silver: its mane frothed with coloured lights. It coiled itself round the box, tail-tip in grinning mouth between pointed, curving teeth. It coiled itself like a constrictor around the Jungfrau herself, who began to make movements of anguish and pain.
The old wizard reappeared, in another set, and prompted a series of princely, strutting puppets, booted, caped, with feathered hats and bright blades, to advance into the chamber and attack the creature. The set for these attacks was an antechamber opening onto the treasure room in which the beast was coiled up and the Princess constricted. They went in—some debonair, some a little tremulous, and were flung out in bloody pieces which spun in segments and fell. Children in the audience cried out with glee.
Prince Frotho appeared. He was a mild and workmanlike figure in serviceable moleskin brown. A serving-maid suggested in mime, he should consult the Mothers.
A new scene showed a bleak stone cavern in which Frotho threw herbs into a cleft in the rock. The Mothers rose slowly from Underground, three huge figures, swaying like growing plants, with veiled skulls for faces and hunched backs. Frotho mimed his problem, mimed the Worm, mimed the Princess. So much expression, Griselda thought, from so simple a collection of wires and china and clay and cloth. The Mothers turned their horrible fixed grins on Prince Frotho and invited him to embrace them. The audience knew he must not hesitate or recoil or he was lost. He stepped out decisively and kissed each creature—they had to bow their upper bodies to receive his kiss. When he had kissed all three, they spun around and around, and changed their appearance—instead of the skull inside the skin, they showed beautiful, dreaming female faces under the now translucent skulls. They stood up proudly and did a stately dance. They had rich hair under their dark veiling. They gave Frotho a blue flower—“Rittersporn,” whispered Wolfgang to Toby, who nodded knowledgeably, and whispered to Griselda that it was “knights’ spurs,” or larkspur, a magical herb.
Armed with the Rittersporn, Prince Frotho returned to the treasure chamber, now entirely filled with the coils of the Worm, between two of which, like a captive through bars, the Jungfrau peered whitely. Prince Frotho brandished his flower and his blade. He whirled it, and the gold head followed its movements. He stabbed—once, twice, three times—and the dragon disintegrated into golden segments, like great coins, which flew in the air and settled in a heap, like money in a vault, with the grinning head on top, and the tail dangling over the front of the stage. The Prince embraced the trembling Princess. The audience applauded. The curtains closed. The puppetmaster stepped out to take his bow. He wore a black gown, absolutely plain, buttoned to the neck, and a kind of square academic cap. Toby and Griselda were clapping vigorously. Dorothy frowned and stared. He had a pale face and a thin, clear-cut mouth. He looked something like one of his own figures, bowing with deliberate grace, unsmiling, lifting his hands, and making a gesture towards the invisible cast behind the curtain, that resembled the acknowledgement of a conductor to an orchestra. His hands were thin and fine. He wore a ring with a green stone. He was alien. He was not quite in this world, and this world was alien to Dorothy, it spoke another language, and lived by other rules and habits. How could she tell who he was? How could she see him? And yet, as with his sons, she “recognised” his face, though she did not know what “recognised” meant. He bowed again, amongst the folds of his gown, and stepped back into the dark.
Wolfgang said, as a dim light glimmered in the theatre, and the audience stirred, that they must all come back and meet his father. Griselda looked at Dorothy who said in a rush that she felt unwell, she really must go home, she was very sorry, another time …
There was some ambivalence as to how far Griselda and Dorothy might be allowed to wander the streets of Munich without a guardian or chaperone. Toby and Joachim took their responsibilities seriously. It was agreed that Karl was a good enough watchman, and the girls managed to persuade him to go “shopping” with them, the next day, and in fact take them as far as the Spiegelgarten. They found the door to the street open, and went in, as before—it was a bright morning, and the next performance was announced on a noticeboard for late that afternoon. Karl was happy to leave them, when they asked if he would. They arranged to meet later in the Café Bettina, unlike the Café Stefanie, a quiet place where women art students gathered to drink tea and coffee.
There was no one in the little courtyard, where the fountain chuckled perpetually. Dorothy and Griselda went into the auditorium, and waited for their vision to adjust. There was no one there, either. But they could hear movements behind the theatre, whose curtains were closed and still. A rattle, a swish, felted footsteps. Griselda whispered “We could call out—” Dorothy said “Come on,” in the tense voice she had used since they came. She was terribly strung up, Griselda thought, following her. She was resolutely calm, and it was costing her.
Behind the stage was a space which was a mixture of a workroom, a storeroom and a wardrobe. Lifeless figures hung in neat lines from parallel rods, like clothes in a wardrobe, or, thought Dorothy with a pang, like those dead trophies on the wall of the gamekeeper’s hut, which Tom had found. Chins sagged, hands and feet dangled. Griselda thought of gibbets. There was a glass case along one wall, full of faces, faces in wood, faces in clay, faces in painted porcelain, some with wigs, some without, grotesque and elegant, sweet and evil, all with that peculiar quality of great marionettes, which is to have one unchanging expression, one character, which can, in motion, mysteriously express many moods and passions, simultaneously fixed and serene, and purely expressive. There were neat piles of the black lacquer boxes in which the marionettes had travelled to Todefright. There were workbenches, with tools—chisels, screws and nails, files and knives—with jars of glue and boxes of silk, satin, felt, floss, illusion, sackcloth.
It was a dark room, but lit by a skylight. Under the skylight, on a kind of throne, padded with red leather, sat Anselm Stern, clothed in black—a velvet jacket, narrow trousers. He was sewing. He had a female marionette bent over one hand, her skirts flung forward over her face, and he was stitching somewhere between her waist and the fork of her dangling legs, which were made of stuffed cloth, but ended in pointed china toes. He seemed to stitch as
a marionette would stitch, each push of the needle, each long pull of the thread, exquisitely performed. He said, without looking up
“Wer sind Sie? Warum sind Sie hier? Das Kammer ist geschlossen.”
“We—I—need to speak to you,” said Dorothy. “It is important.”
Griselda translated this into German. They stood together in front of his chair, like two schoolgirls before a master. Griselda’s dress was duck-egg-blue and shining. Dorothy was in severe dark green. She clutched her purse. Anselm Stern spoke again, briefly.
“He says, if it is important, then tell him what it is.”
“My father told me,” said Dorothy, and stopped, confused. “That is, I have been told that—who I thought was my father is not my father. He told me that you are my father.”
Griselda translated. The hand with the needle paused, and then pierced again.
“So I came to see you,” said Dorothy, calmly desperate.
She had not known what she expected this father to do, on hearing this announcement. For a moment, he did not look up, but tightened his mouth and drove in another stitch. Then he laid aside the doll, carefully, and looked straight at Dorothy. It was a studying look, neither friendly nor unfriendly, but searching. “Who are you?” he said.
“My name is Dorothy. Olive Wellwood is my mother. My—her husband—is Humphry. He seems to be sure of what he says.”
“And you are how old?”
“Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.”
“And why have you come here? What do you want?”
Dorothy found it hard to breathe. “I want to know who I am.”
It was wildly absurd to be saying all this through Griselda’s deliberately expressionless, gentle voice.
“And do you expect me to tell you?” asked Anselm Stern.
“I thought,” said Dorothy with spirit, “that if I knew who you were, I should know more about who I really am.”
“Indeed,” said Anselm Stern. The sharp mouth smiled a wry smile. “And in your place, Fräulein Dorothy, I should have had the same thought, I think—so maybe, vielleicht, that tells us a little of who we both are.”
He was silent, for some time, thinking. He said “When were you born?”
“On November 23rd, 1884.”
He counted months on his precise fingers. He smiled. He said
“What does your mother think about the fact that you are here?”
Dorothy looked to Griselda for help. Griselda looked blank. Dorothy began to speak fast, in her normal voice, not the unnaturally formal one she had been using.
“She doesn’t exactly know, that is, it hasn’t been openly discussed. But I think my father—I think that he—has told her what he said to me, because she seems—perhaps angry, with him or with me—she didn’t try to stop me coming here, but we didn’t talk about why—I think there was an unspoken—understanding. I don’t think she meant me to know. I don’t think she knew what to say to me.” She paused. “It was a great shock to me. And difficult for her.”
She listened to Griselda’s soft German, following the rhythms of her English, half a sentence behind.
“So,” said Anselm Stern. “Ich verstehe.”
“I understand,” said Griselda.
“You are an unusually determined and outspoken young woman,” said the two voices, the German one both amused and judging, the English one hesitant.
“I like to understand things. To know,” said Dorothy.
“So I see. Had you thought what this—this knowledge—would mean to me? I have a wife and two sons. What did you expect me to do, when you had told me?”
“I didn’t know what you would do. That is up to you. You can tell me to go away. I think you believe what I say.”
“I think I do believe you. You were born nine months after Fasching. There are many Fasching cuckoos in Munich.”
“Fasching cuckoos?”
Griselda and Anselm Stern began to explain simultaneously. “Fasching is Karneval. All is permitted,” said Anselm Stern. “Fasching is a great mad Shrove Tuesday feast, with dancing in the street,” said Griselda, and broke off to translate Stern’s explanation. Griselda said, translating nothing,
“We have met your sons, Herr Stern. In the Pension Susskind where we are staying. They brought us to the performance yesterday. But we said nothing to them, and did not wait to see you, because of what Dorothy had to say.”
“Translate, please,” said Dorothy, excluded.
Stern said to Griselda
“And you, who are you?”
“I am Dorothy’s cousin, Griselda Wellwood. That is, I am not Dorothy’s cousin, but we have always been closer than sisters. My mother was born Katharina Wildvogel. You may remember—you were kind enough to explain the Aschenputtel story, at Todefright, when you performed it.”
“I remember. Your German is better than it was at that time.” He was silent for a few moments. He picked up the marionette he had been stitching, shook out her skirts, and looked into her painted eyes. He fingered the silky hair, which looked as though it was real human hair, tucking it into shape.
“I have always wanted a daughter. My sons are good sons, but I always wanted a daughter. What to do now?”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you, or make your life difficult.”
“This is Munich, this is Wahnmoching, this is the home of doctrinaire Free Love, where it is laid upon us to greet cuckoos as golden eggs. This is the city where you may say openly what you have just said to me, here in this inner room, and no one will think worse of you—no one that matters that is, of course, for the heavy burghers and beer-drinkers are only Matter, inessential, what they think is heavier than air. But you may not wish to say anything, on your own account. You may be ashamed, which you should not be, or embarrassed, which you have a right to be. You may wish to keep the secret you have been told and share it only with those who already know it, Herr Humphry, your mother, and the wise Fräulein Griselda here whom we must both thank, I think, not only for the bridge of language, but for the calm and philosophical atmosphere that comes with her. I could take you to meet my wife—”
Griselda blushed, and her voice faded, far behind. Dorothy continued to work for clarity.
“What would—what will—your wife think?”
“My wife is an artist. My wife models in clay and carves stone and teaches at the Damen-Akademie. Her name is Angela, and she is an Angel. She likes to be in the forefront of modern thinking. In principle, she would expect a family to welcome a discovered child. In practice, I do not know. How long are you in Munich? For if you are here for some time, we might proceed—delicately, soft-footed, sagaciously—”
Griselda was having more trouble with the translation as Anselm Stern—who chose his words carefully—began to use the slightly odd, poetical vocabulary his friends would have recognised.
“We are here for two or three months. We are studying. I am trying to learn German. I have to pass my matriculation. I am not gifted at languages, Mr. Stern. But I will try.”
“Not gifted at languages? But serious, not a hausfrau. An interesting kind of daughter. What are your gifts, your inclinations, your hopes, Miss Dorothy?”
“I mean to be a doctor. The training is very hard. I should like to be a surgeon.”
“Let me see your hands.”
He put aside the limp puppet—his own hands seemed uneasy without occupation. Dorothy moved closer to him, and he took both her hands in his. Both pairs were thin, wiry and strong. They were the same kind of hands.
“Strong hands,” said Anselm Stern. “Capable hands, delicate hands.” He gave a dry little cough. “I am moved.”
Dorothy went red, and then white. Tears threatened, and she held them in.
“You are tired, young ladies,” said Anselm Stern. “A great effort has been made, strain has been endured. We should go and drink coffee, or chocolate, and eat a pastry, and talk calmly and generally, about Life and Art, and begin to know each other? Yes?”
That night, Dorothy said to Griselda “His name suits him.”
“Stern.”
“Yes. He looks stern. Serious and stern.”
Griselda gave a little laugh.
“Stern in German doesn’t mean stern.”
“What…?”
“It’s the German word for a star.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy, revisiting the imagined figure in her mind. “A star.”
31
The events, so far, had been initiated by Humphry’s lapse, and controlled by Dorothy’s will. To her surprise—and in some ways, to her relief—Anselm Stern now took over the control of the story, which he began almost to direct as though it had been the structure of a play. He arranged meetings, of different kinds, in different places. He took his new daughter for walks in the Englische Garten, with Griselda walking like a shadow a few paces behind. He wore a swinging coat with wide skirts, and a wide-brimmed hat. In his pockets, it turned out, puppets were tucked, with strings and bars. A wistful female child, a wolfman with a snarling smile and a fur coat, a strange mooncalf, luminous green with huge eyes. He held them out and they tripped along beside him. Passers-by waved to them. Anselm said to Dorothy
“I do not know whether I believe they have souls, or temporary souls, or intermittent souls.” He looked searchingly at Griselda. “Du kannst übersetzen? I think I believe that we are all fragments of one great soul—that the earth is one living thing, and the clay and the wood and the catgut these are made of are forms of life, as is the movement I lend them.”
Dorothy nodded seriously, pink. She had a pretty straw hat with a midnight-blue ribbon.
“I have embarrassed you,” he said. “No.”
“Oh yes. I knew I would. But I always walk here, with these creatures—these manikins—and I wish my daughter to know me as I am.”
