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Authors: William Jablonsky
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I wondered why, despite his confidence that Herr Edison could never duplicate his design, he continued to brood so. Upon reflection I believe his long-held admiration for the great inventor blinded him to Herr Edison’s motives, and is the source of his disappointment. I have yet to know such disappointment or betrayal, and it comforts me that, so long as I am in the care of the Master and his family, I never will.
27 November 1893
11:35 a.m.
Despite the sobering news Herr Gruber recently received, and which I have previously discussed, Fräulein Gruenwald has managed to convince him to take a nap in his den to replenish his energy from the long journey. Nonetheless, as I write this from the relative isolation of my cubby I can occasionally hear faint, angry grumbles punctuating his snoring. I do not believe he will forget Herr Edison’s slight in the near future.
We arrived home at 6:45 this morning, during an early, light snowfall. The trees were nearly bare on our return, but the hills had taken on a frosty shroud, which practically gleamed in the sunlight. I found the sight pleasing, and as the carriage neared his home, an oasis of brick against the white street and sidewalks, the Master’s stern features finally seemed to soften.
Jakob had not yet risen, but Giselle, in her nightgown and terry robe, flew into her father’s arms when we entered, ignoring the thin dusting of snow on the Master’s overcoat. He smiled weakly, perhaps trying to disguise his disappointment, but was unable to fool her.
“What’s wrong, Father?” she said, her arms still wrapped round his neck. “Has something happened?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Everything is fine.” He kissed her forehead and shuffled into the kitchen.
Giselle turned her affections on me next, standing on tiptoe to kiss my suede cheek. “I want to show you something,” she said. She took my hand and led me through the library to my private alcove, placing her right hand over my eyes as we neared it. I had already seen the collage, with its elm-leaf face and maple hat, framed on the wall before she blocked my view, but I feigned surprise just the same.
“I hope you like it,” she said.
“It’s wonderful,” I replied, in all sincerity. This was not a simple child’s rendering—though I had been deeply moved by Adi’s impromptu sketch—but an intricately detailed likeness down to the subtlest angles and contours of my face and the different shades of tan in my suede skin. It must have taken weeks to select the proper leaves—longer to fashion them into the portrait.
“I think it livens your corner up a bit. Now you’ll have something to look at besides all these books.”
I thanked her profusely, and showed her Adi’s drawing. She laughed like a ringing bell. “It’s adorable,” she said, and tacked it to the wall below her magnificent collage. “There. See, you have two admirers.”
I did not show her the ceramic ballerina the Master had boughtme, instead keeping it tucked in my left breast pocket until I could find a way to display it in a manner appropriate to its delicateness and elegance.
Downstairs we heard the Master’s workshop door close, and she looked up at me. “Father seems unhappy,” she whispered. “What happened while you were away? He didn’t mention anything in his letters.”
It was not my place to betray the Master’s confidence, so I told her he was simply tired from travel and would regain his good humor after sufficient rest.
“I suppose so,” she said, raising one eyebrow in the dim light. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” For no obvious reason I suddenly found myself staring at her long red-gold hair, wanting very much to run my fingers through it, to cast the worry lines away from her forehead, as if her skin were a soft white sheet, easily smoothed.
After a moment the worry left her face. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She smiled shyly and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Ernst,
27 November 1893
11:35 a.m.
Despite the sobering news Herr Gruber recently received, and which I have previously discussed, Fräulein Gruenwald has managed to convince him to take a nap in his den to replenish his energy from the long journey. Nonetheless, as I write this from the relative isolation of my cubby I can occasionally hear faint, angry grumbles punctuating his snoring. I do not believe he will forget Herr Edison’s slight in the near future.
We arrived home at 6:45 this morning, during an early, light snowfall. The trees were nearly bare on our return, but the hills had taken on a frosty shroud, which practically gleamed in the sunlight. I found the sight pleasing, and as the carriage neared his home, an oasis of brick against the white street and sidewalks, the Master’s stern features finally seemed to soften.
Jakob had not yet risen, but Giselle, in her nightgown and terry robe, flew into her father’s arms when we entered, ignoring the thin dusting of snow on the Master’s overcoat. He smiled weakly, perhaps trying to disguise his disappointment, but was unable to fool her.
“What’s wrong, Father?” she said, her arms still wrapped round his neck. “Has something happened?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Everything is fine.” He kissed her forehead and shuffled into the kitchen.
Giselle turned her affections on me next, standing on tiptoe to kiss my suede cheek. “I want to show you something,” she said. She took my hand and led me through the library to my private alcove, placing her right hand over my eyes as we neared it. I had already seen the collage, with its elm-leaf face and maple hat, framed on the wall before she blocked my view, but I feigned surprise just the same.
“I hope you like it,” she said.
“It’s wonderful,” I replied, in all sincerity. This was not a simple child’s rendering—though I had been deeply moved by Adi’s impromptu sketch—but an intricately detailed likeness down to the subtlest angles and contours of my face and the different shades of tan in my suede skin. It must have taken weeks to select the proper leaves—longer to fashion them into the portrait.
“I think it livens your corner up a bit. Now you’ll have something to look at besides all these books.”
I thanked her profusely, and showed her Adi’s drawing. She laughed like a ringing bell. “It’s adorable,” she said, and tacked it to the wall below her magnificent collage. “There. See, you have two admirers.”
I did not show her the ceramic ballerina the Master had boughtme, instead keeping it tucked in my left breast pocket until I could find a way to display it in a manner appropriate to its delicateness and elegance.
Downstairs we heard the Master’s workshop door close, and she looked up at me. “Father seems unhappy,” she whispered. “What happened while you were away? He didn’t mention anything in his letters.”
It was not my place to betray the Master’s confidence, so I told her he was simply tired from travel and would regain his good humor after sufficient rest.
“I suppose so,” she said, raising one eyebrow in the dim light. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” For no obvious reason I suddenly found myself staring at her long red-gold hair, wanting very much to run my fingers through it, to cast the worry lines away from her forehead, as if her skin were a soft white sheet, easily smoothed.
After a moment the worry left her face. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She smiled shyly and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Ernst,
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