mind.’
‘I think my potatoes are overdone too,’ Lotte said, prodding them doubtfully.
‘Let’s mash them,’ Dortchen said. ‘I brought some butter.’
‘Bless you,’ Lotte said.
OLD TALES
October 1807
The sitting room was full of people. Dortchen put the tray down on the big table in the middle of the room and looked around curiously.
Apart from the four eldest Grimm brothers, there were two men. One was thin and dark and serious-looking, very elegantly dressed in a starched cravat and a well-cut coat of dark-blue superfine over a snowy-white waistcoat. His hair was cut short à la Brutus, a few curls allowed to fall on his broad, pale forehead.
The other man could not have been more different. He was closer to thirty than twenty, and was broad-chested and heavy-jowled. Deep lines of dissipation ran from the corners of his loose-lipped mouth to his chin. His eyes were heavily pouched, his forehead marked with scowl lines. He did not wear the dark coat and intricate starched cravat of a man of fashion, but a loose emerald-green robe like a medieval scholar, with a bright-orange scarf wrapped loosely about his throat. His hair was short and messy, but – unlike the nonchalant disorder of his companion’s – it looked as if he had not bothered to run a comb through it in some time.
The women were as strangely dressed as he was. One was little more than a girl, dressed all in black, from hem to collar to fingertip to bonnet. Her dress was made of muslin, however, not bombazine, and it looked as if it had been dyed in a hurry by an amateur, for the hue was patchy.Her bonnet, too, had been inexpertly dyed, and Dortchen could see where flowers had been ripped away and replaced by swathes of black veiling. She sat by herself in a corner, though her eyes busily flicked from one person to another. Her face was a constant parade of emotions – anger, scornful disbelief, outrage, wistful longing – which crossed her face in moments as she listened to the ebb and flow of the conversation.
‘She’s wearing mourning for her lost innocence,’ Lotte whispered to Dortchen. ‘She and Herr Brentano’ – she indicated the man in the orange scarf – ‘were married this week. She says he abducted her. He says he came to Cassel to escape her, but found her in his carriage dressed in a wedding gown, and what else was he to do?’
‘How old is she?’ Dortchen whispered back.
‘Sixteen.’
Only two years older than she was, and married to this world-weary man with the scowling eyes. Dortchen felt sorry for her. The girl in black must have seen her quick glance, for she stood up and pointed. ‘Look, Clemens, there’s a girl even younger and fresher than me. We’ve been married but a week. Time enough. Divorce me and you can carry her off in your carriage and ravish her like you ravished me.’
‘Augusta,’ her husband said warningly.
‘Don’t call me that any more,’ she proclaimed in a trembling voice. ‘Augusta Busmann is dead.’
‘Oh, stop being so tiresome,’ the other young woman said. ‘You jump into Clemens’s carriage and beg him to take you away. What did you expect him to do?’
‘You have no heart, Bettina Brentano,’ Augusta said, turning her face away.
‘No, no, I am all heart,’ Bettina cried. ‘That’s your problem, Augusta. You say you want to live a life of romance and danger and passion, but you’re only pretending. If you truly want to be alive, you’ve got to feel it all – the pain, the guilt, the desire – all of it.’
Dortchen could not help staring at Bettina, who was the most extraordinary-looking creature she had ever seen. Aged in her early twenties, she was as small and delicate as a child, with large, dark eyes,pale skin and a riot of dark curls that hung all around her face in tight ringlets. She wore a white poet’s shirt with billowing sleeves and a flowing collar, tied with a crimson sash over flowing purple silk. A bracelet of coins hung about one
‘I think my potatoes are overdone too,’ Lotte said, prodding them doubtfully.
‘Let’s mash them,’ Dortchen said. ‘I brought some butter.’
‘Bless you,’ Lotte said.
OLD TALES
October 1807
The sitting room was full of people. Dortchen put the tray down on the big table in the middle of the room and looked around curiously.
Apart from the four eldest Grimm brothers, there were two men. One was thin and dark and serious-looking, very elegantly dressed in a starched cravat and a well-cut coat of dark-blue superfine over a snowy-white waistcoat. His hair was cut short à la Brutus, a few curls allowed to fall on his broad, pale forehead.
The other man could not have been more different. He was closer to thirty than twenty, and was broad-chested and heavy-jowled. Deep lines of dissipation ran from the corners of his loose-lipped mouth to his chin. His eyes were heavily pouched, his forehead marked with scowl lines. He did not wear the dark coat and intricate starched cravat of a man of fashion, but a loose emerald-green robe like a medieval scholar, with a bright-orange scarf wrapped loosely about his throat. His hair was short and messy, but – unlike the nonchalant disorder of his companion’s – it looked as if he had not bothered to run a comb through it in some time.
The women were as strangely dressed as he was. One was little more than a girl, dressed all in black, from hem to collar to fingertip to bonnet. Her dress was made of muslin, however, not bombazine, and it looked as if it had been dyed in a hurry by an amateur, for the hue was patchy.Her bonnet, too, had been inexpertly dyed, and Dortchen could see where flowers had been ripped away and replaced by swathes of black veiling. She sat by herself in a corner, though her eyes busily flicked from one person to another. Her face was a constant parade of emotions – anger, scornful disbelief, outrage, wistful longing – which crossed her face in moments as she listened to the ebb and flow of the conversation.
‘She’s wearing mourning for her lost innocence,’ Lotte whispered to Dortchen. ‘She and Herr Brentano’ – she indicated the man in the orange scarf – ‘were married this week. She says he abducted her. He says he came to Cassel to escape her, but found her in his carriage dressed in a wedding gown, and what else was he to do?’
‘How old is she?’ Dortchen whispered back.
‘Sixteen.’
Only two years older than she was, and married to this world-weary man with the scowling eyes. Dortchen felt sorry for her. The girl in black must have seen her quick glance, for she stood up and pointed. ‘Look, Clemens, there’s a girl even younger and fresher than me. We’ve been married but a week. Time enough. Divorce me and you can carry her off in your carriage and ravish her like you ravished me.’
‘Augusta,’ her husband said warningly.
‘Don’t call me that any more,’ she proclaimed in a trembling voice. ‘Augusta Busmann is dead.’
‘Oh, stop being so tiresome,’ the other young woman said. ‘You jump into Clemens’s carriage and beg him to take you away. What did you expect him to do?’
‘You have no heart, Bettina Brentano,’ Augusta said, turning her face away.
‘No, no, I am all heart,’ Bettina cried. ‘That’s your problem, Augusta. You say you want to live a life of romance and danger and passion, but you’re only pretending. If you truly want to be alive, you’ve got to feel it all – the pain, the guilt, the desire – all of it.’
Dortchen could not help staring at Bettina, who was the most extraordinary-looking creature she had ever seen. Aged in her early twenties, she was as small and delicate as a child, with large, dark eyes,pale skin and a riot of dark curls that hung all around her face in tight ringlets. She wore a white poet’s shirt with billowing sleeves and a flowing collar, tied with a crimson sash over flowing purple silk. A bracelet of coins hung about one
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