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Authors: Stephanie Kallos
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And look! She is wearing a costume exactly like Margaret's!
"Oh, Papa O!" Margaret cries. "It's beautiful! Thank you!"
She is about to hug him when he stops her.
"But wait, darling. This time when I am gone, I hear from the Sisters and the staff you are such a good girl that I have brought for you two figurines. Here."
She opens the second box and brings out a figurine which is an exact duplicate of the first, with one striking difference.
"Isn't it glorious?" Papa O's voice is so soft and low, he sounds like he's at Confession.
"But, Papa. It's all white. There are no colors on this one."
"Ah! That is because the kaolin, the clay in this one, is so pure, so rare, so magnificent, that it requires nothing else. Just form and light. Here. Let us put them both together on this table."
He sets the figurines side by side and then sits down in the armchair again and takes her hands. "Margaret, dear one, I know how much you love your gaudy colors, but here, close you eyes now. Touch them, one with each hand, Can you feel the difference? Can you?"
"Yes," Margaret lies. "I feel the difference."
"Now open your eyes and look. Which one is the original, and which is the copy?"
It is never hard to guess what Papa O wants her to say. And she does so love pleasing him. Margaret points. "This one. And this is the copy."
"Yes, Margaret, yes! So you see," Papa O explains, pulling her into his arms, "they both have value, of course they do. But this one ... ah! This one comes from the purest clay and the finest factory in all the world: Meissen, darling. 1748. Now say it."
"Meissen," Margaret repeats. "1748."
"And this one is from Chelsea, 1753."
"Chelsea."
"Good girl. Remember always, my love, how important it is to recognize purity. Recognize it, and prize it. Papa O will not always be here to tell you what is the pure and what is the copy, do you understand?" Margaret becomes aware of her mother, leaning against the door frame, looking on with her empty expression. "I see you're training the child early," she says.
Margaret's father looks up briefly, smiles, squeezes her even tighter. "She makes a beautiful shepherdess, don't you think, Cassandra?"
"Come see the figurines Papa brought me," Margaret says to her mother. "They are from Meissen and—"
"No thank you, Margaret. I've seen enough of your father's treasures. I'm going to bed."
Years later, many elements of this memory took on a new meaning for Margaret. But what struck her as the most obvious and important thing was the way her father had costumed her—not as the original, but as the object of lesser worth.
The other memory takes place a few years later, early one morning in 1934.
Margaret is dressed for school and eating her breakfast in the sunny atrium. She is waiting for Papa O to join her when she hears her mother's voice. It is hoarse and ragged.
"Margaret! Margaret! Where are you?"
Margaret's mother bursts through the French doors. She must have come from outside, Margaret realizes, incredulous, because the edges of her peignoir are grass-stained and soaked with dew, and because she is clutching the morning newspaper to her chest. Her feet are bare and muddy, and as she steps into the atrium she slips wildly on the tiled floor. Margaret is sure she will fall, but she somehow makes it to the table and stops herself by crashing into it. Behind her is Vidkun, the head butler. He is very pale and frightened.
Cook waddles in with the hot pastries and then stops, her mouth gaping "Missus?"
"Clara," Vidkun says, "Get one of the girls to summon Mr. Hauptmann."
"Where-?"
"He's taking his exercise in the ballroom. Tell him he's needed right away. And call the doctor."
"Yes, sir," Clara says. "Begging your pardon, missus. Here's hot pop-overs, in case you're wanting breakfast today."
"Thank you, Clara." Margaret's mother is tearing frantically through the newspaper, panting. The ink rubs off on her elegant fingers and they start to become smudged and gray.
"Oh, Papa O!" Margaret cries. "It's beautiful! Thank you!"
She is about to hug him when he stops her.
"But wait, darling. This time when I am gone, I hear from the Sisters and the staff you are such a good girl that I have brought for you two figurines. Here."
She opens the second box and brings out a figurine which is an exact duplicate of the first, with one striking difference.
"Isn't it glorious?" Papa O's voice is so soft and low, he sounds like he's at Confession.
"But, Papa. It's all white. There are no colors on this one."
"Ah! That is because the kaolin, the clay in this one, is so pure, so rare, so magnificent, that it requires nothing else. Just form and light. Here. Let us put them both together on this table."
He sets the figurines side by side and then sits down in the armchair again and takes her hands. "Margaret, dear one, I know how much you love your gaudy colors, but here, close you eyes now. Touch them, one with each hand, Can you feel the difference? Can you?"
"Yes," Margaret lies. "I feel the difference."
"Now open your eyes and look. Which one is the original, and which is the copy?"
It is never hard to guess what Papa O wants her to say. And she does so love pleasing him. Margaret points. "This one. And this is the copy."
"Yes, Margaret, yes! So you see," Papa O explains, pulling her into his arms, "they both have value, of course they do. But this one ... ah! This one comes from the purest clay and the finest factory in all the world: Meissen, darling. 1748. Now say it."
"Meissen," Margaret repeats. "1748."
"And this one is from Chelsea, 1753."
"Chelsea."
"Good girl. Remember always, my love, how important it is to recognize purity. Recognize it, and prize it. Papa O will not always be here to tell you what is the pure and what is the copy, do you understand?" Margaret becomes aware of her mother, leaning against the door frame, looking on with her empty expression. "I see you're training the child early," she says.
Margaret's father looks up briefly, smiles, squeezes her even tighter. "She makes a beautiful shepherdess, don't you think, Cassandra?"
"Come see the figurines Papa brought me," Margaret says to her mother. "They are from Meissen and—"
"No thank you, Margaret. I've seen enough of your father's treasures. I'm going to bed."
Years later, many elements of this memory took on a new meaning for Margaret. But what struck her as the most obvious and important thing was the way her father had costumed her—not as the original, but as the object of lesser worth.
The other memory takes place a few years later, early one morning in 1934.
Margaret is dressed for school and eating her breakfast in the sunny atrium. She is waiting for Papa O to join her when she hears her mother's voice. It is hoarse and ragged.
"Margaret! Margaret! Where are you?"
Margaret's mother bursts through the French doors. She must have come from outside, Margaret realizes, incredulous, because the edges of her peignoir are grass-stained and soaked with dew, and because she is clutching the morning newspaper to her chest. Her feet are bare and muddy, and as she steps into the atrium she slips wildly on the tiled floor. Margaret is sure she will fall, but she somehow makes it to the table and stops herself by crashing into it. Behind her is Vidkun, the head butler. He is very pale and frightened.
Cook waddles in with the hot pastries and then stops, her mouth gaping "Missus?"
"Clara," Vidkun says, "Get one of the girls to summon Mr. Hauptmann."
"Where-?"
"He's taking his exercise in the ballroom. Tell him he's needed right away. And call the doctor."
"Yes, sir," Clara says. "Begging your pardon, missus. Here's hot pop-overs, in case you're wanting breakfast today."
"Thank you, Clara." Margaret's mother is tearing frantically through the newspaper, panting. The ink rubs off on her elegant fingers and they start to become smudged and gray.
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