The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [325]
“I don’t. I like talking to you.”
And then that silence, that was the end of that conversation, as of others.
He invited her to go with him to see the Marlowe Society, who were reviving their successful production of Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus. The audience consisted mostly of a group of visiting German students, ready to see what Goethe had read. Because it was not term-time there was not only no strict chaperonage, there were women playing female parts—which were admittedly non-speaking and brief. There were no transvestite Kingsmen as queens or temptresses. There were the Fabian Nursery with Brynhild (“Bryn”) Olivier, daughter of Sir Sidney Olivier, founding Fabian, and Governor of Jamaica, playing Helen of Troy, the “face that launched a thousand ships,” in a low-cut dress, her hair powdered with gold. Francis Cornford, the classical scholar, was Faustus, Jacques Raverat (who was eventually to marry Gwen Darwin) was Mephistophilis, and some female Fabians were Deadly Sins. Rupert Brooke was the Chorus looking marvellous, and speaking the verse somewhat squeakily.
Griselda asked if he could get another ticket. A friend was visiting Cambridge—Julian knew him, in fact—he was Wolfgang Stern, from Munich. The Sterns were over in England, planning changes in the puppets and marionettes for the reopening of Tom Underground in the autumn. Julian got the ticket and Wolfgang appeared, looking a little Mephistophelian with a sharp black beard and jutting brow. They sat in the centre, a few rows back. Behind them the Germans commented in German, supposing they were not understood. Wolfgang turned round and told them to be quiet. They laughed, and attended. Griselda sat sedately between Wolfgang and Julian. Behind them were some more Darwins, Jane Harrison and her lovely student, Hope Mirrlees. Harrison must have come to see Francis Cornford, with whom she corresponded daily and rode rapidly about Cambridge on bicycles. There was a party afterwards, at the Darwin house on Silver Street, to which the three were not invited. Julian took them to a restaurant near Magdalene Bridge. It was French and cheerful, with checked tablecloths.
Wolfgang Stern said rather aggressively that the voices he thought were good, but none of these English people knew how to move. They stood like melting candles bending over. Their gestures were polite when something else was required. Griselda said that was most unfair. The Mephistophilis had been quite snaky in his movements. He was French, said Wolfgang, that was why. The English should—was it “stick to”?—tableaux vivants. Charades. He seemed quite cross.
Griselda said placatingly that she meant to ask him—Wolfgang—about an essay she was writing on the differences between the Grimms’ two versions of the Cinderella story—“Aschenputtel” and “Allerleirauh,” Cinderella and the Many-furred. She said she loved the word
“Allerleirauh,” every kind of rough fur. Cinderella was persecuted by a stepmother, but Allerleirauh dealt intelligently with an incestuous father and a cook who threw boots at her. And somehow she was moved by the fact that Allerleirauh, hiding her gold, silver and star-spangling dresses under the skin cloak, became a furry creature—an animal—neutral in German—not an object of desire.
“Until she chose,” said Wolfgang. “And then she blazed out like the sun and the moon—”
“The English and the French have sweetened Cinderella—”
Julian felt an electricity. It sparked and flickered between the other two. Their hands were just too near together. Griselda looked too intently or not at all at the German.
“And what does that mean?” Julian asked himself, and did not quite know.
He and Wolfgang walked Griselda back to her College, into which she had to be locked, although a grown woman, at a ridiculously early hour. She stood on the step, smiling at both of them. “A lovely day,” she said. “Civilised,” she added. It was, Julian knew, one of her highest words of praise.
• • •
He invited his newly discovered