The Children's Book

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 Fraulein 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