Was it just that he was in a bad temper, Marie wondered, or was Peter really so much less taken by the idea?
“Go to see Strupp in his molding shop? What am I supposed to say to him? And where would I get the money for the molds?”
Although Marie tried to sound indignant, Peter’s suggestion was not altogether unexpected. Whenever she had pondered the matter in recent weeks, she had come to the same conclusion: there was no way to free-blow a glass nut or pinecone and have the result look at all realistic. They had to be blown into a form. And the only man in Lauscha who made forms was Emanuel Strupp.
“Then make some yourself. Your sketches are detailed enough that you could make a clay model. Then you could use the clay to make a plaster-of-Paris form. I could get you a few chunks of clay and plaster without any trouble. I imagine that your forms won’t last as long as Strupp’s—nobody knows what he puts into his mixture—but they shouldn’t shatter the first time you use them at the lamp. It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?”
Marie’s lips curved up in a triumphant smile. “To be honest, I was thinking along the very same lines. If you think I can do it, that’s all the encouragement I need.” She shrugged. “After all, what have I got to lose?” Impulsively, she squeezed Peter’s arm. “If I didn’t have you . . . You really are a good man!”
Peter stared down at his glass. “You’re the only woman who thinks so.”
Marie kept quiet. She knew perfectly well who his remark was directed at; only last week Johanna had rebuffed him rather brusquely. All he had done was ask whether she intended to come home the following weekend. Marie thought the question quite justified, given that her sister had spent the last two weekends in Sonneberg, but Johanna had almost exploded and accused him of treating her like a child.
“You know Johanna,” she said rather lamely.
“Why is that woman so headstrong?” Peter asked, raising his hands helplessly. “Who’s she trying to convince that she can get by alone? We all know that by now.”
Marie struggled to find a suitable answer. But she wasn’t used to such outpourings of feeling, and she didn’t feel she was good at this sort of thing. She wasn’t the kind of person who would run to tell someone else her troubles. Whenever she felt sad, she sat down with her sketchpad and drew something. And she did the same when she was feeling happy.
“Nobody can claim that I’m pushing her into anything. I still remember what your father used to tell me. I can practically hear his voice. ‘Give the girl time,’ he said. ‘Johanna’s not nearly so grown-up as she pretends to be.’ That’s all very well but how long do I have to wait for her to realize where she belongs?” Peter’s shoulders drooped.
So Father had known all about Peter’s feelings for Johanna. And apparently he had approved.
“But you can hardly force her to love you,” she said, surprised to hear a note of aggression creep into her voice. Where had he gotten the idea that he and Johanna were meant for one another? Why was he so firmly convinced of it?
Peter collapsed like a bellows at rest. “I know that,” he said quietly. “But I still hope that she’ll come to me one day. Of her own free will. It’s just that sometimes”—he laughed awkwardly—“some days are harder than others. I’m only human after all. I have desires, I have needs . . .” He broke off. “But why am I telling you all this? You’re not like other women. You seem to just float above these things.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but it doesn’t exactly sound like a compliment,” Marie said, rather put out. What had gotten into Peter today, when he was usually so cheerful?
“Do you know, for a while I even thought that you and the youngest Heimer boy . . .” he said, looking askance at her.
“Michel and I?” Now she truly was offended. “How on earth did you get that idea?” She very nearly shook herself like a cat caught out in the rain.
Peter shrugged. “Well, back in the spring he was calling on you quite often. So I thought that you and he . . . What’s so odd about the idea that you might marry a Heimer boy as well?”
“Well thank you very much!” Marie said, outraged. “Perhaps he did have some hopes in that direction. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I simply didn’t have the heart to send him away. You know, he’s not such a bad lad.” She didn’t mention that she had made him show her one or two tricks at the lamp when he visited. Looking back, she was rather ashamed of having taken advantage of him like that. Perhaps he had felt encouraged by her words of praise? Marie decided that it was time to change the topic.