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Authors: William Jablonsky
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when I saw him—a tall, rather lankyman bundled in a thin black overcoat and black hat, standing at the edge of the trees behind the house. I very nearly missed him. He appeared to be staring at the house’s western face, unmoving as he stood in the snow. I assumed he was a traveler whose carriage had lost a wheel and who was seeking assistance—not unusual this time of year, when the roads can be quite slippery—and shuffled out toward him.
“Good evening,” I said. “May I help you with something?”
His gaze briefly turned toward me; I could not make out his features, as they were obscured by a thin plaid scarf and a wide-brimmed hat. He remained still, neither answering nor moving, and I thought he might be frightened of me.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
When I had come within twenty feet of him he pivoted on his heel and began to walk away, rather quickly. I followed him to the edge of the yard, continuing to ask if he was in some kind of distress, but he soon disappeared from view. The Master would likely not have approved of my following him through the park, so I made my way toward the back door. Perhaps he was lost, or searching for another house. On my way back I looked up at the west wall; in the darkness I saw a warm glow from one of the upstairs windows—Giselle’s room, to be specific—and inside, barely visible through the crack in the curtain, Giselle, in her nightgown, running a round brush through her long reddish-blonde hair. I stood in the snow and, for just a moment, watched her hair spilling repeatedly over her shoulders, then rejoined the Master in his study.
“Well?” He pulled yet another sheet of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it in his two hands, and tossed it over his shoulder. Hedid not seem in the mood for a detailed account, so I decided not to burden him further.
“Nothing,” I said. “A traveler who had taken the wrong route.” I felt it unnecessary to tell him more, though for a moment I admit I wondered if he may have been an agent of Herr Edison’s, meant to pressure the Master into selling my designs. In any case, he has not returned.
“I thought as much,” the Master said. “That Brundt worries over everything. For now, no more interruptions.”
“Of course,” I said, and closed the door behind me.
30 November 1893
11:47 p.m.
After mailing off his letter to
The New York Times
—a ten-page document decrying Herr Edison’s treachery and bemoaning the rise of mass production at the expense of the artist’s unique vision, the Master announced that, come spring, we would be traveling to America to personally unravel the lie Herr Edison has perpetrated, starting with New York City and, if necessary, ending on his doorstep in Menlo Park, New Jersey. I very much look forward to seeing New York, in particular the Statue of Liberty, which the Master says is quite spectacular, especially at night.
Once the letter was finished, the Master’s mood seemed to improve significantly. The timing is fortunate: his extended family will be arriving tomorrow for the festivities, and I have been enlisted to help with the preparations. In keeping with Giselle’s mother’s tradition, Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald are preparing to make amagnificent feast of several courses. Today I accompanied Fräulein Gruenwald and the children to market in the city to purchase the many foods they will be serving: geese and pork loins for roasting; several varieties of potato, for mashing and roasting (while Frau Gruber will not approve of the potatoes, the children and the Master certainly will); bread, apples, celery, and raisins for stuffing; milk and molasses for pudding. I followed close behind them in my hat and overcoat, carrying their parcels in hemp sacks over my shoulder. As I have previously stated, I am well known here and attracted little attention, save for a pair of errant children who ran up to poke at me before their parents fetched them. Jakob attempted to trip me
“Good evening,” I said. “May I help you with something?”
His gaze briefly turned toward me; I could not make out his features, as they were obscured by a thin plaid scarf and a wide-brimmed hat. He remained still, neither answering nor moving, and I thought he might be frightened of me.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
When I had come within twenty feet of him he pivoted on his heel and began to walk away, rather quickly. I followed him to the edge of the yard, continuing to ask if he was in some kind of distress, but he soon disappeared from view. The Master would likely not have approved of my following him through the park, so I made my way toward the back door. Perhaps he was lost, or searching for another house. On my way back I looked up at the west wall; in the darkness I saw a warm glow from one of the upstairs windows—Giselle’s room, to be specific—and inside, barely visible through the crack in the curtain, Giselle, in her nightgown, running a round brush through her long reddish-blonde hair. I stood in the snow and, for just a moment, watched her hair spilling repeatedly over her shoulders, then rejoined the Master in his study.
“Well?” He pulled yet another sheet of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it in his two hands, and tossed it over his shoulder. Hedid not seem in the mood for a detailed account, so I decided not to burden him further.
“Nothing,” I said. “A traveler who had taken the wrong route.” I felt it unnecessary to tell him more, though for a moment I admit I wondered if he may have been an agent of Herr Edison’s, meant to pressure the Master into selling my designs. In any case, he has not returned.
“I thought as much,” the Master said. “That Brundt worries over everything. For now, no more interruptions.”
“Of course,” I said, and closed the door behind me.
30 November 1893
11:47 p.m.
After mailing off his letter to
The New York Times
—a ten-page document decrying Herr Edison’s treachery and bemoaning the rise of mass production at the expense of the artist’s unique vision, the Master announced that, come spring, we would be traveling to America to personally unravel the lie Herr Edison has perpetrated, starting with New York City and, if necessary, ending on his doorstep in Menlo Park, New Jersey. I very much look forward to seeing New York, in particular the Statue of Liberty, which the Master says is quite spectacular, especially at night.
Once the letter was finished, the Master’s mood seemed to improve significantly. The timing is fortunate: his extended family will be arriving tomorrow for the festivities, and I have been enlisted to help with the preparations. In keeping with Giselle’s mother’s tradition, Giselle and Fräulein Gruenwald are preparing to make amagnificent feast of several courses. Today I accompanied Fräulein Gruenwald and the children to market in the city to purchase the many foods they will be serving: geese and pork loins for roasting; several varieties of potato, for mashing and roasting (while Frau Gruber will not approve of the potatoes, the children and the Master certainly will); bread, apples, celery, and raisins for stuffing; milk and molasses for pudding. I followed close behind them in my hat and overcoat, carrying their parcels in hemp sacks over my shoulder. As I have previously stated, I am well known here and attracted little attention, save for a pair of errant children who ran up to poke at me before their parents fetched them. Jakob attempted to trip me
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