The Wild Girl by Kate Forsyth Page A

wrist. They chimed with every move she made.
    ‘Supper’s ready,’ Lotte cried.
    Karl and Ferdinand came and took up their plates, crowing with delight. ‘It’s a feast! Mother, you’ve done wonders.’
    ‘Oh, it was Dortchen and Lotte.’ Frau Grimm smiled comfortably.
    Karl opened the wine and splashed it into pewter goblets, and Ferdinand passed them around.
    ‘The poor fish,’ Bettina said. ‘I wish that I had been there when he was caught, so I could ransom him and set him free.’
    ‘Do you not want yours?’ Karl demanded. ‘Because I’ll take it gladly.’
    ‘I suppose one must eat,’ Bettina said, and she took a plate and fork back to the armchair by the fire, where she sat with her legs curled up under her. Dortchen, passing out forks and napkins, was surprised. That was Jakob’s chair. The eldest Grimm brother seemed content to sit at the table and eat, however; he was deep in conversation with Wilhelm and the elegant young man in the white waistcoat, who must be Achim von Arnim.
    ‘I have brought some stories to show you,’ Achim was saying. ‘They were collected by the painter Philipp Otto Runge. He heard them from some fishermen and did his best to write them down word for word. Oh, Jakob, they are real folk tales, free from artifice and preciousness.’
    Achim put down his fork and pulled a sheaf of paper from his coat pocket. It was closely covered with beautiful handwriting. ‘This one is very funny, about a fisherman and his wife. He catches a flounder that is really an enchanted prince, and so lets him go. The wife is angry and tells him he should have asked the enchanted prince to give them a cottage to live in instead of their filthy old shack. So the fisherman asks the fish and is given a lovely little cottage, but the wife is not satisfied. First she wants a palace, then she wants to be king, then emperor, then pope—’
    ‘It sounds like Napoléon,’ Wilhelm interjected. ‘It wouldn’t at all surprise me if he ends up wanting to be pope as well as emperor.’
    ‘Is the Pope not his puppet anyway?’ Jakob said, scooping up a mouthful of fish.
    ‘Well, let us hope Napoléon ends up like the fisherman and his wife in this story, back in the filthy old shack where they belong,’ Arnim said.
    ‘Are you going to publish it in The Boy’s Wonder Horn? ’ asked Jakob.
    ‘We’ve decided to focus only on songs and poetry in The Wonder Horn ,’ Clemens said, bringing his plate over to join them.
    ‘We’ve published the other story, “The Juniper Tree”, in the magazine we’ve put together,’ Arnim said. ‘It’s a sad, strange tale about a boy who is slaughtered by his mother and eaten by his father, but he comes back as a singing bird to take his revenge.’
    ‘It sounds very old,’ Wilhelm said. ‘Like a Greek tragedy. May we make a copy of the stories? We’re interested in old tales. Jakob is writing an article about Minnesingers, and I’m working on one about the Lay of the Nibelungs.’
    ‘Why don’t you send us your articles?’ Arnim said. ‘They sound just the sort of thing we’re looking for.’
    ‘We’ve called the magazine Journal for Hermits ,’ Clemens said with a laugh. ‘Perfect for you two.’
    ‘We’ve copied down quite a few old tales from manuscripts and books,’ Wilhelm said. ‘Would you be interested in publishing any of those as well?’ He looked at Jakob with excitement gleaming in his dark eyes.
    ‘Perhaps,’ Clemens answered. ‘Though maybe you should think of putting a book together, as we have done with The Boy’s Wonder Horn .’
    ‘We could write down any old stories that we hear,’ Jakob said, his fork hovering above his plate. ‘We could try to capture the simple, natural tone of the storyteller.’
    ‘I’m sure such old stories have very deep roots,’ Wilhelm said. ‘They go far back into the past. It would be fascinating to collect them and save them from disappearing.’
    Bettina had been sitting in her chair,