Marie had her doubts.
Of course there was a certain appeal in how the book described the logic of shapes. A circle was simply a point, enlarged. Several points next to one another yielded a line. Four lines of equal length yielded a square and the center of the square could also be used as the center of a cross whose arms would divide the sides of the square . . . everything could be broken down into shapes, lines, and angles. It was a whole new experience for Marie to see how art could be described with such precision. She had begun to check all her designs using the rules laid out in the book, but she hadn’t gotten far since it didn’t mention spheres at all. A sphere had no beginning and no end, no corners and no angles. It couldn’t be divided up with rectangles or points. She couldn’t even say, “This is up and that is down” or “This part is rounder than that part.” Like the soap bubbles Joost used to blow for her, a glass ball was a world unto itself. The fact that it was self-contained was exactly what had fired Marie’s imagination.
To her mind, the globes were the perfect shape. The ideal form by which all her designs must be judged. If an image could not be painted onto a globe, it was no good to her.
She set the book aside, her mind made up. She wasn’t getting anywhere like this. She had to talk to someone who knew about glass. And who knew about globes.
The problem was: there was no such person.
There was no point even trying to approach old Heimer with new designs anymore. His sons were busy morning till night finishing orders for the wholesalers. And Marie very much doubted anyway that he would share her love of glass globes.
And Ruth and Johanna thought that her drawing was nothing more than a pleasant hobby. Besides, they were both so busy with their own lives that they had no time to see what strides Marie had made with her art. Even if they had been peering over her shoulder at every new bauble she created, Marie wouldn’t have been happy. If anyone was going to watch her, it needed to be someone who really understood art.
Apart from them, there was only Peter. He had kept his promise from Christmas and told her, “If it will help, the two of us can spend one evening a week together at the bench and lamp. I make eyes, of course, so I only know about that one little area of glassblowing, but I’ll gladly share whatever I know. And I can give you one or two practical bits of advice as well. I didn’t start blowing glass yesterday, after all.”
It took some time before Marie noticed just how helpful Peter’s lessons were. It wasn’t just the practical advice he gave but above all the feeling that he took her seriously.
But even after serving this “apprenticeship” with Peter for the past six months, Marie still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still a mere amateur at her craft. Would she ever become a skilled glassblower? How was such a thing even possible when she didn’t even have enough rods of raw glass to practice properly? Johanna earned enough to be generous when it came to buying her sketchbooks and pencils, but she couldn’t just conjure up rods of glass out of nowhere. They were only on sale at the foundry. Although Johanna would probably have thought nothing of walking into the foundry and buying them if her sister had asked her to, Marie didn’t want to even think of the gossip that would go round the village if she did. She had no choice but to ask Peter to bring her some rods from time to time.
Once Johanna had offered to get some oil paint for her—“Don’t all the great artists paint in oils?” she had asked, which was probably meant as a compliment—but Marie had thanked her for the offer and declined. Oil paints were not her medium; they were too sluggish. They didn’t flow. Glass was what she wanted to work with. It was a hard taskmaster, for sure: it could burst or dribble away or crack into a thousand shards. A glassblower could cut himself or be burned—and Marie had faced all these dangers by now. But the more she worked with glass, the more obsessed she became.
Marie looked up at the clock. It would be eight o’clock soon. Peter’s patient would have left by now, and it was almost time for her lesson. She gathered up her latest designs in a sheaf, put on a light jacket, and left the house.
He was scowling as he opened the door. “I have work to do,” he said instead of welcoming her.
Hesitantly, Marie took her jacket off all the same. Work? She couldn’t see any work waiting for him on the table, though there was a glass and a bottle of schnapps.
“If today’s not good, I’ll leave,” she said, trying to hide the sketches behind her back. But Peter waved her over to the table.
“You’re here now. Perhaps it would do me good to take my mind off things.”
“I’d like to try something new. It’s still Christmas decorations, but it’s nothing that I’ve ever tried before,” she said, spreading out the drawings on the table.
“Walnuts, hazelnuts, acorns. And pinecones.” Peter looked at her. “I don’t understand. This isn’t new. Practically everyone gathers them in the woods and gilds them to hang on their Christmas tree.”
Marie grinned. “But not everyone has nuts made of glass hanging on their tree.”
“Nuts made of glass?” He looked at her appraisingly.
She grew more excited as she explained her idea to him. She could see every detail in her mind’s eye, could feel the nuts’ smooth curves in the palm of her hand, could run her fingertips over the pinecones. She looked at Peter, expecting him to be just as enthusiastic.
But he merely shrugged. “If you want to do more than free-blowing, if balls aren’t enough, then you’ll have to go to Strupp and have him cast you some molds.”
Was it just that he was in a bad temper, Marie wondered, or was Peter really so much less taken by the idea?
“Go to see Strupp in his molding shop? What am I supposed to say to him? And where would I get the money for the molds?”
Although Marie tried to sound indignant, Peter’s suggestion was not altogether unexpected. Whenever she had pondered the matter in recent weeks, she had come to the same conclusion: there was no way to free-blow a glass nut or pinecone and have the result look at all realistic. They had to be blown into a form. And the only man in Lauscha who made forms was Emanuel Strupp.
“Then make some yourself. Your sketches are detailed enough that you could make a clay model. Then you could use the clay to make a plaster-of-Paris form. I could get you a few chunks of clay and plaster without any trouble. I imagine that your forms won’t last as long as Strupp’s—nobody knows what he puts into his mixture—but they shouldn’t shatter the first time you use them at the lamp. It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?”
Marie’s lips curved up in a triumphant smile. “To be honest, I was thinking along the very same lines. If you think I can do it, that’s all the encouragement I need.” She shrugged. “After all, what have I got to lose?” Impulsively, she squeezed Peter’s arm. “If I didn’t have you . . . You really are a good man!”
Peter stared down at his glass. “You’re the only woman who thinks so.”
Marie kept quiet. She knew perfectly well who his remark was directed at; only last week Johanna had rebuffed him rather brusquely. All he had done was ask whether she intended to come home the following weekend. Marie thought the question quite justified, given that her sister had spent the last two weekends in Sonneberg, but Johanna had almost exploded and accused him of treating her like a child.
“You know Johanna,” she said rather lamely.
“Why is that woman so headstrong?” Peter asked, raising his hands helplessly. “Who’s she trying to convince that she can get by alone? We all know that by now.”
Marie struggled to find a suitable answer. But she wasn’t used to such outpourings of feeling, and she didn’t feel she was good at this sort of thing. She wasn’t the kind of person who would run to tell someone else her troubles. Whenever she felt sad, she sat down with her sketchpad and drew something. And she did the same when she was feeling happy.
“Nobody
can claim that I’m pushing her into anything. I still remember what your father used to tell me. I can practically hear his voice. ‘Give the girl time,’ he said. ‘Johanna’s not nearly so grown-up as she pretends to be.’ That’s all very well but how long do I have to wait for her to realize where she belongs?” Peter’s shoulders drooped.
So Father had known all about Peter’s feelings for Johanna. And apparently he had approved.
“But you can hardly force her to love you,” she said, surprised to hear a note of aggression creep into her voice. Where had he gotten the idea that he and Johanna were meant for one another? Why was he so firmly convinced of it?
Peter collapsed like a bellows at rest. “I know that,” he said quietly. “But I still hope that she’ll come to me one day. Of her own free will. It’s just that sometimes”—he laughed awkwardly—“some days are harder than others. I’m only human after all. I have desires, I have needs . . .” He broke off. “But why am I telling you all this? You’re not like other women. You seem to just float above these things.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but it doesn’t exactly sound like a compliment,” Marie said, rather put out. What had gotten into Peter today, when he was usually so cheerful?
“Do you know, for a while I even thought that you and the youngest Heimer boy . . .” he said, looking askance at her.
“Michel and I?” Now she truly was offended. “How on earth did you get that idea?” She very nearly shook herself like a cat caught out in the rain.
Peter shrugged. “Well, back in the spring he was calling on you quite often. So I thought that you and he . . . What’s so odd about the idea that you might marry a Heimer boy as well?”
“Well thank you very much!” Marie said, outraged. “Perhaps he did have some hopes in that direction. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I simply didn’t have the heart to send him away. You know, he’s not such a bad lad.” She didn’t mention that she had made him show her one or two tricks at the lamp when he visited. Looking back, she was rather ashamed of having taken advantage of him like that. Perhaps he had felt encouraged by her words of praise? Marie decided that it was time to change the topic.
“If we’re talking about having callers . . . Am I wrong, or have I seen Rita Strupp dropping in on you?”
Peter nodded.
“So?” It was just like a man, to clam up at the decisive moment.
“She likes me.” He made a face. “She even gets quite insistent sometimes. I don’t think I’d even have to make much of an effort if I wanted to . . .” He broke off when he noticed that the conversation was beginning to get rather personal. “But what would I want with Rita?”
Marie had to laugh.
“Other men wouldn’t ask such a silly question. She’s a very pretty girl, after all.”
“So what if she is,” Peter said dismissively. “I prefer a girl with a good head on her shoulders. But I don’t think it’s anything to do with Rita, really. It’s just that any other woman would only be second best for me. There’s nothing I can do about that, but I won’t settle for second best. Look at it this way: if someone forbade you from blowing glass all of a sudden, would you say, ‘Never mind, I’ll just take up crocheting’?”
“It’s rather an odd comparison, but I see what you mean. Poor Peter . . .” She gave him a friendly pinch. “Given how wrapped up Johanna is in her work, I can see how you might be having rather a lonely time of it.”
He nodded gloomily. “You’re right of course. If Johanna doesn’t come back to Lauscha by some miracle, I may as well become a monk.”
3
“Isn’t she the prettiest child you’ve ever seen?” Ruth held Wanda up. The only answer was the baby’s giggling. “Here! I’m sure Aunt Marie wants to hold you for a while.”
Before Marie knew it, she had the child in her arms. Wanda promptly stopped laughing and began to cry.
“She doesn’t want to come to me, can’t you see that?” Marie held the baby out, as though she were infectious.
Wanda took the opportunity to pick up one of Marie’s pencils and put it in her mouth.
“Leave that alone, it’s poisonous!” Marie said as flecks of apple-green drool fell onto the delicate lace collar of Wanda’s dress.
“Give her to me,” Johanna said, smiling “Your aunt Marie doesn’t have the patience for a little scrap like you.”
As soon as her hands were free, Marie tried to restore order on her worktable. She soon realized, however, that it was pointless, given all the bits and bobs that Ruth had scattered about since coming in. How could a little baby need so much stuff?
It was late on Sunday afternoon, and Marie had been planning to try to make a second clay model. The first—a long, thin pinecone—hadn’t turned out badly for a first attempt, and she wanted to see whether she would improve with practice. But by the look of things, she wouldn’t be getting any work done today.
“Where does she get the silvery-blonde hair from?” Ruth asked, stroking her daughter’s head adoringly. “Not from Thomas’s side of the family, that’s for sure. Mind you, her hair doesn’t shine the way it does on its own. I give it thirty strokes of the brush every night before bed. With very soft bristles, of course. And I only ever wash it with the lavender soap that you gave me.” She smiled. “When Wanda’s a little bit older she’ll get a silver clasp for her hair. Just like I always wanted when I was a child.”
“Don’t you remember? Mother’s hair was blonde, not as fair as Wanda’s of course, but much lighter than Father’s or ours.” Johanna closed her eyes. “I can still feel how silky smooth her hair was. She used to braid it every evening.”
“That’s right,” Ruth burst out. “We always used to squabble over who got to brush it and plait it for her. Once, I . . .”
Marie cleared her throat. “Could you go into the kitchen to talk, please? I’d really like to spend some time drawing, and . . .”
“You want to draw right now? When we hardly have any time together as it is?” Ruth replied.
“You have all week long for your sketches,” Johanna put in reproachfully.
“All week!” Marie pursed her lips. “Don’t make me laugh!”
Ruth called in every evening, claiming that it was “just for a little while” and always stayed for hours. Talking to Wanda. Talking about Wanda. Saying how pretty she was, how clever. Marie glanced irritably at her niece, who was chattering away to herself. Why did children have to be so loud?
“Why don’t you make some coffee, and I’ll join you in half an hour?” she suggested, doing her best to sound friendly.
She uttered a quick prayer of thanks once the two of them did as she had asked and the room was finally quiet once more.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Marie,” Ruth declared as she watched Johanna grind the coffee beans. “I almost feel we’re not welcome here. Hmm . . . that smell. I could happily die with that smell in my nostrils.”
“I brought you a bag of coffee last time I came. Is it all gone?” asked Johanna.
“Long gone. It’s been three weeks since then. And I have to have my little treats, don’t I? Eh, don’t I, Wanda?”
She jogged the baby up and down on her knee. Then she added in a deliberately casual tone, “Oh by the way . . . I’ll be coming along with you to Sonneberg tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow? That doesn’t really suit me very well,” Johanna responded, frowning. “Strobel’s coming back tomorrow, so I have to be in the shop right on time. And I can’t leave early since he always wants an update on all that happened in his absence.”
“All I ever hear is Strobel this and Strobel that! Isn’t this the second time this year he’s taken one of his trips?” Why didn’t Johanna ask what she wanted to do in Sonneberg? Nobody in this house seemed to care what she had to say.
“The third time,” Johanna corrected her
dryly. “But as far as I’m concerned, he can take as many trips as he likes, and for as long as he likes.”
“Ha, I can well understand that. You probably have a high old time when he’s not there.”
“Not at all. Some days there’s so much work to get through that I’m in a flat spin by noon. But tell me: Why do you want to go to Sonneberg tomorrow?”
At last! Ruth gave a secretive smile. “I have a little idea. Actually I wasn’t planning to tell you, but . . . well, why not! You’re my sisters after all.”
She looked indulgently at Marie, who had joined them at the table. Then she fetched one of Johanna’s magazines from her bag next to her chair. It was called the Arbor and its subtitle proclaimed it to be a journal for the entertainment and edification of ladies. Johanna only ever leafed through it, but Ruth read every line of every page, looked intently at every picture, and absorbed every scrap of information like a sponge.
Ruth turned to the page she wanted and pointed to a picture of a little baby swaddled in fine lace and lying on a bearskin.
The others looked at it uncomprehendingly.
“The newest scion of the Russian Imperial house,” Johanna read the caption under the photograph. “I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with your trip to Sonneberg?” Johanna asked.
Ruth rolled her eyes. “Sometimes you can be rather slow on the uptake. Isn’t it obvious: I want to have a photograph taken of Wanda! Like the tsar’s baby. On a bearskin. After all she’s at least as pretty as the little girl in the picture.”
“A photograph of Wanda?” Johanna’s skepticism was written all over her face. “What does Thomas have to say about it?”
“Thomas!” Ruth waved her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t need to know everything. Once the picture’s ready, I’m sure he’ll like it.”
The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1) Page 24
