The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [360]
Katharina lit the candles which had been brought out for the occasion, and stood in silver candlesticks.
Philip sat at the end of a table in a wheelchair that supported his leg. He was next to Dorothy, who was opposite Wolfgang. Charles/Karl was sitting next to Elsie, and their hands touched. Katharina watched her daughter watch Wolfgang Stern. Griselda had become fixed, efficient and almost spinsterly as the war went on. Katharina was almost resigned to seeing her close herself into a college. Now her composed face was discomposed and hungry in a way Katharina had never seen. Katharina asked Wolfgang if he would like more soup, and used the familiar “Du.” He smiled, and his grim face was livelier. She gave more soup to her frail and bony son, and to his wife, who watched him fiercely and fearfully. She gave more soup to Hedda, who was tired but almost contented, having worked hard and usefully all day, and to Ann, who had become attached to Hedda. She gave more soup to Dorothy, who gave more to Philip, who said it was delicious. Delicate dumplings lurked beneath the golden surface on which a veil of finely chopped parsley eddied and swayed. Steam rose to meet the fine smoke from the candles, and all their faces seemed softer in their quavering light.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel owes a great deal to many people, who have told me about things, shown me things, and shared their knowledge. People always thank their patient partners at the end of their acknowledgements, but I want to thank my husband, Peter Duffy, at the beginning. He has shown me southern England, driven me to odd places, and shared with me his considerable knowledge of the First World War, including his books. He has found things out about distances, modes of transport and buildings, and checked (some of) my mistakes. He has also been patient.
I owe a great deal to Marian Campbell, who showed me the gold and silver in the Victoria and Albert Museum—and understood that I would need the Gloucester Candlestick. She also showed me the basement and its treasure. Reino Liefkes showed me the ceramics department, including works by Palissy, and early Majolica dishes. A pot in the hands is quite different from a pot behind glass. Fiona McCarthy sent me her copy of Anthony Burton’s Vision and Accident about the Museum—I saw I needed my own, and bought one. Her work on William Morris has also been hugely helpful. I am grateful to Sir Christopher Frayling, who sent me books about the Royal College of Art and talked to me about it.
My daughter, Antonia Byatt, when director of the English Women’s Library, helped me with the history of women’s suffrage and introduced me to Anne Summers, and to Jennian Geddes, whose generous provision of information about women in medicine at the time of my novel was both fascinating and extraordinarily helpful.
Edmund de Waal invited me to visit his studio, and allowed me to put my hands into a wavering clay pot. He also gave me books and suggested more, and I owe him a great deal. I was also helped by Mary Wondrausch whose book on slipware—apart from being full of interest—was also full of technical information and delectable vocabulary.
My friend and translator Melanie Walz, who lives in Munich, showed me the city and took me to the puppet museum—and everywhere else—and shared her wide knowledge of German and Bavarian art and life, over many years. The book could not have been written without her. I am also grateful to Professor Martin Middeke who took me to the Augsburg puppet museum, and to Deborah Holmes and Ingrid Schram who took me to see the Teschner collection in the Austrian Theatre Museum in Vienna, and to the Museum of Applied Arts there, where I learned a great deal, with great pleasure, from Dr. Rainald Franz.