Katharina Luther

by Anne Boileau

  We at Nimbschen had certainly not lived in luxury, far from it. We had worked hard and eaten frugally; and when indigents and beggars came to the convent door they were fed and given shelter. And we prayed and sang to Our Lord, which surely helps the whole of humanity. I was about to speak my mind, but Fräulein Biber spoke for me, her voice low but firm.

  “Herr Holzschuher, I have lived in a convent since I was twelve, and it was no life of ease for us. Of course there have been lazy, opulent houses, throughout the history of the Church, and from time to time good men came to put right the abuses. Look at St Francis of Assisi – he gave away everything he owned and for centuries his followers owned nothing. It is in the nature of human affairs that things will start off well, then gradually standards slip; but I feel that you in Nürnberg – or indeed in any of the cities that have espoused the new ways – are in danger of destroying too much. In your zeal for a fresh start, you will find you have swept away not only the corrupt and rotten, but something much more important: holiness.”

  “Holiness? It’s not a word I use a lot.”

  “The church is like a body – diseased and sinful, as we all are sinful, but within it there is a beating heart of love. I fear that the new rationalism has no heart in it. The incantation of familiar words, the celebration of mass in Latin, the singing of psalms and plainchant, with mystery and incense, these communal acts speak to men’s souls. Processions around the town, the festivals, repeated year after year: these are what make sense of people’s lives. For the simplest and the poorest peasant, a holy mass or benediction is more powerful than a thousand wordy sermons, however clever the preacher. When I see an old woman kneeling before the altar, or lighting a candle in front of a much-loved saint, or stopping on the road by a sacred shrine, as you saw, Ma’am, I see the purest love of God, not superstition and ignorance.”

  “So what do you think about all the relics that people pay so much to acquire, to see?’ asked Philip. “Most of them are fakes. Don’t you think it’s mere exploitation of the poor and gullible, playing on their superstition and ignorance?”

  “Yes, it is a form of exploitation and a way of raising money to rebuild churches. But I don’t think it matters. If the poor believe in the divinity of such things, then it helps them in their faith and devotion. It’s the same when we make a pilgrimage; for us it is the journey, the commitment, the struggle to reach the sacred place, rather than the place itself which is significant.”

  “Hocus pocus. They believe if they touch this or that relic they’ll be cured of some malady or their crops will grow or their sick child will recover. They are not ‘praying,’ they are being duped with the promise of miracles, if you like.”

  “But they are like children, they don’t know any better. If you take these things away from them, they’ll seek out some wise woman in the forest and get her to cast spells, or prepare noxious infusions. If the Church denies them a little magic, they’ll look for it elsewhere. That is what I fear and I am not alone.”

  “Well, I think we must agree to differ,” said Philip, with some condescension. “A new world is dawning, and these old customs and ways of thinking must be set aside to make room for the new.”

  “It may be a new world,” said Frau Holzschuher, “but it is a frightening and unstable one. You forget, Herr Melanchthon, things are in ferment out there in the countryside, in villages, on the roads, people don’t know who they can trust, they’re scared of their village being pillaged and ransacked by angry peasants; often the priest has run away leaving a void, even the landed gentry are on the move, or barricading themselves into their castles. You are in a cocoon of relative tranquillity here in Wittenberg. The checkpoints at all the entry gates, the guards keeping troublemakers out. It’s not the real world.”

  “It’s the real world all right, madam. You could say we’re in the eye of the storm here, with Dr Luther in our midst. We are at the very hub of the Reform movement. It may seem like peace, but refugees are pouring in from other towns. Which is why Wittenberg is so crowded, so full of refugees, mostly supporters of our cause.”

  “Well, I can only say what I’ve seen. Wittenberg’s like a haven of peace here by comparison. We’ve seen angry hordes roving on the country roads, defying their feudal lords, abandoning their families, their villages, chanting slogans like: ‘the last shall be first’ and ‘blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the kingdom.’ The old order is gone forever, but what has replaced it? And I agree with Frau Biber. People need a little magic in their wretched, brutish lives.”

  How right she was. But Wittenberg wasn’t really so insulated against the troubles. Witchcraft was on the increase. Two women had been burnt in the town square only the week before, accused of having liaisons with the devil in the woods on the other side of the river. One of them was an aunt of Elsa’s; Elsa’s mother had come to Herr Cranach, asking him to plead with them for clemency for her sister; she protested that she was a good woman, that she was only helping bereaved folk to get in touch with their dead relatives; she was a barren widow so had no children to care for her. The neighbours had noticed the comings and goings in her little hovel by the river and reported their suspicions to the authorities. Herr Cranach listened to his maid’s mother with sympathy but said he was sorry, but he had no power to overrule the courts. So the poor woman was burnt at the stake, along with another old nursery maid accused of casting spells on some children in her care. It was a grizzly spectacle and a large crowd turned out to watch. For my part it made me quite sick and I’m sure it’s not good for children to see such things. Poor little Uschi witnessed the horror, knowing it was Elsa’s auntie, and suffered bad dreams for several nights after it.

  “Christ told us to judge not, lest we ourselves be judged,” said Fräulein Biber. “‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone’. What is more important? That the Church should mete out punishments and spread fear, or show our Lord’s love and infinite mercy? Should they condemn old women to the stake, or try to reform them? If men of the world insist on punishments and cruelties, let them do so in the name of the world and not of Christ.”

  “Dear Fräulein Biber, you should not take these sayings literally,” said Melanchthon.

  “But is that not what you and your fellow scholars are doing – drawing us back to the Scriptures, relying on them alone for truth and guidance?” I said, no longer able to hold my tongue.

  Philip looked a little taken aback at this, but he said “Have a care what you say, Fräulein. We are not yet living in the Kingdom. If we do not act decisively to root out a small evil, cruel though our actions may appear, a far greater evil may occur. As we punish the wicked, we must be careful not to do so in such a way as to take some wicked pleasure in their suffering – we do it only for the glory of God and out of love for him and his creatures.”

  “Well said, Herr Melanchthon,” applauded Herr Holzschuher, and cast a condescending look in my direction. I looked down at my darning and saw that in my anger I had driven a needle into my palm without even feeling it. I held my tongue. I was furious with Melanchthon, and offended by the wealthy merchant from Nürnberg. Men can be so obstinate sometimes, so intractable.

  Without our noticing, the sun had moved round and it had grown chilly. We all got up without more ado, shook hands and went our separate ways: I went back into the dark kitchen. My armpits were sweaty, though I had been sitting quite still for some time.

  Chapter 12

  Two Proposals

  Ich fliehe mit aller Kraft die Einsamkeit, wenn ich unlustig bin.

  I avoid solitude with all my might when I am without joy.

  Time is a great healer. I found out at last what had been alienating Barbara from me: it was all to do with the ringworm that had taken hold in the household, affecting the children in particular. She thought I had infected the children with it, whereas in fact I had caught it from them. We were all dosed with syrup of fumitory and ointment of samphire and field scabious. Anyway, we r
ecovered from that, and partly through a desperate desire to regain Barbara’s affection I threw myself into my work and was as helpful as I could be. After Christmas Barbara was delivered of a fine baby girl, whom they named Barbara. She says she’s at her best when she has a baby to nurse. How on earth could my own mother have handed me over to a wet-nurse, instead of feeding me herself?

  Another man was paying me court, and although I didn’t like him, his advances did improve my bruised self-esteem. He’s a humourless man, a pastor almost twice my age. He smells of old books and dusty cupboards; he clasps his hands in front of him, in a kind of supplication and walks a bit lop-sided, close to the wall and on the shady side of the street, as if bright sunlight might catch him out.

  His name is Dr Kaspar Glatz. He took to dropping in on the Cranachs for supper; he must have been watching me. However, I was taken by surprise when, one evening during Lent, he asked for my hand in marriage. We were sitting on our own in the parlour and without warning he lunged at my hand with both of his, clasping it clumsily, and in a thick voice said:

  “Fräulein. I’ve been wanting to ask you for several weeks: would you consider becoming my wife?”

  I had to stifle a laugh. Had I encouraged him? I am naïve in such matters. I did quite enjoy intellectual discussions with him, so maybe he misconstrued my interest as something more; but he held no attraction for me; his skin is pale, his eyes lacklustre. He is lost in books and antiquity, in religious theory, in Greek and Latin and Hebrew texts.

  Subsequently, I discovered that he had been encouraged in his suit by my sponsors. Once it became clear that Hieronymous was not coming back for me, the Professor Herr von Amsdorf and Dr Luther felt responsible for the last ‘herring’ left unclaimed and they were keen to find me a husband.

  Herr von Amsdorf called by and asked me:

  “Have you thought about Herr Glatz’s proposal, Fräulein von Bora?”

  “Herr von Amsdorf, the answer is no.”

  “Well, tell me, my dear, is there any man of your acquaintance who you would consider as a spouse, if he were free and willing?”

  “If he were free and willing, I can think of two men: the first one is you!” (I said this with a laugh and a sparkle, so he need not take it as a serious suggestion, though I would have gladly married him.) “Or, failing that, I can think of one other.”

  As I said this I looked at him defiantly, knowing that what I was about to say was bold.

  “And might I know who that is?”

  “Dr Luther.”

  Von Amsdorf made a sort of puffing sound as if to say, this woman has a nerve. He stood up and took his leave courteously enough, but left the room shaking his head. He must then have gone straight to the Black Cloister and told the Doctor about my rejection of Dr Glatz. Much later, I learnt that on hearing this Dr Luther had sworn in fury and said “Who the devil will she have then?” Whereupon von Amsdorf told him what I had said to him.

  After von Amsdorf had gone I sat in a daze staring at my hands. The skin was cracked and my fingernails were dirty – I’d been thinning radish seedlings. Why, when he asked me who I would be happy to take as a husband, had I heard myself say the Doctor, almost before I knew it myself? What had made me say that? I smiled at my own audacity and then laughed out loud. Where had I got that idea? Of course I admired the Doctor, respected his intellect and courage, was grateful to him for helping me and the others to break out of the convent, and for looking after me since. But marriage? And yet, was it such a foolish idea? I needed a husband, and the Doctor certainly needed a wife. Indeed, he wanted a wife, or he would not have proposed to Ave. Perhaps that little stab of jealousy I had felt when he proposed to my friend had sown a seed in my heart, imagining I could be his wife just as well as Ave, who had turned him down.

  What was the attraction? You could say Dr Luther was even more absorbed and lost in the world of ancient Hebrew, the Greek language and life in Palestine fifteen hundred years ago than was the worthy Dr Glatz. But in every other way he is incomparable to Glatz. Dr Luther is brimming with energy and humour. He laughs, jokes about down-to-earth things like farting and bowel movements. He sings with his lute and writes songs and hymns; he loves small children; he walks through the town greeting people cheerily; he rides out of town, to and from the villages, noticing when birds arrive, where they nest, when they gather for their autumn migration; he rejoices in wild flowers in their season, in the greening in spring of the great oaks and elms along the river bank. He loves his dog, his hens, his horse, the goats and pigs. I caught him once, leaning over the Cranachs’ sty door watching a sow feeding her litter.

  “I’d like to think she’ll go to heaven, the old sow, when her time comes. She has the blessedness of any mother, look at how she feeds and cares for them; and yet all her piglets must die, just to feed us, to hang by the hocks in the larder, then in the bacon room, to see us humans through the winter.”

  Above all, Martin rejoices in being alive, whereas Kaspar Glatz seems lost in a world of dusty books. As Julian of Norwich once said, he sees God in everything.

  I cannot say I love the Doctor. But how many people marry for love? Usually it’s an economic union, a union of mutual benefit to the couple in question and the families involved. I began to weigh up the reasons why a marriage between him and me might not be such a bad idea. Here I am, a single woman no longer in the first flush of youth, of noble birth but with no dowry, and few prospects of a good marriage; I have cast myself out into a dangerous world, hostile to women. And here he is – a monk nearly all his adult life, still in fear for his life, with too much work and very little money despite his fame, (or notoriety). Everyone agrees, Barbara, Frau Reichenbach, even Catharina Melanchthon: he needs a wife to manage his affairs. And poor Dorothea his housekeeper – she’s a good cook, but she’s not very bright and goes mad trying to run his kitchen and his household and feed all the hangers-on and droppers-in. I could be that person. I know from my years at the convent how to run an estate and mind the pennies; I have learnt from Barbara how to run a home and give a husband support and encouragement.

  Added to that, I am well educated; unlike most secular women, I read, write and speak Latin, I am well versed in the Scriptures, and schooled in theology. I enjoy music and singing, and can hold my own with him in a conversation or a song. I would be more than a helpmeet and wife, I would be a soul mate, a companion to him, someone to exchange ideas with, someone to encourage him in his intellectual endeavours, someone to confide in. Above all, Dr Luther and I have this in common: we have both experienced the monastic life, with all the intellectual, spiritual and ascetic rigours that entails.

  So I sat there wondering what his reaction might be. He is not handsome. In matters of personal appearance and hygiene there is room for improvement. His skin is pale and he is overweight; but his hair is thick and curly, his chin determined, his nose prominent; his hands are broad and strong, if often stained with ink. He neglects to cut his nails or shave as often as he should. His clothes of plain wool are shabby and not always clean. And heaven only knows when he last took a bath.

  To some he is notorious – he has overthrown everything they hold dear. But he has a magnetic power. His eyes sparkle with a dangerous energy. If your eyes meet his it’s almost as if he can see into your soul. His gaze has a different power from my suitor Hieronymous; when he looked at me he touched me in my inner core, aroused my womanhood. When Dr Luther looks at me he sees into my mind, my soul; and that is exciting in a different way. He has a presence. A room might be full of people talking, moving about, greeting one another – but when the Doctor walks in a hush falls and all eyes turn to him.

  His power is not of the sword but of the word. What he says or writes today can be read next week in Paris, Lucca, Seville or Cambridge. This power fascinates me. And yet for all this fame he seems a lonely figure.

  One evening a few weeks ago the Doctor came into the Stube as supper was about to be served; Barbara invited him to join
us. He said grace. After the meal he stayed on, drinking wine, telling stories, anecdotes; little Uschi sat on his knee as he told her, told all of us really, the story of Rumpelstiltskin; we all joined in the incantation: “Straw into Gold, Straw into Gold! Rumpelstiltskin is my name!” Then we fetched our various pipes and lutes and fiddles and made music – Lucas had recently bought some printed sheet music; then we sang songs in parts, folk songs, plainsong, and one of Luther’s hymns, ‘Praise be to you, Lord Jesus Christ’.

  It was bed time for the children and Dr Luther raised his glass in a toast: “If Theology is to have the first place, I would give music second, and the very highest honour. Singing is such a good way to pray, the melody lingers in your head and plays back to you, again and again. To sing is to pray twice.”

  The candles burned low, and still we sat and talked and sang. Eventually he got to his feet and said: “Well, good people, I must leave you.” Before he left we all joined in the beautiful canon which comes from Psalm 115: non nobis domine non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam, sed nomini tuo da gloriam, non nobis domine non nobis. Then Lucas showed him out of the warm cosiness of the Cranach’s parlour.

  I thought of him walking home on his own to the Black Cloister, to its cold dark rooms, its shabbiness and discomfort. Nothing has been done to the building since the monks left five years ago. They haven’t even installed a tile oven, only a huge open grate which smokes when the wind is in the wrong direction. The walls have no hangings, the floors at ground level are bare cold flagstones, and upstairs there are only plain wooden boards, with no rugs or rushes. And though he is not usually on his own, the household is a loosely knit collection of men; students who share his roof as paying guests; visiting ministers or one-time monks; various travelling scholars who call on him and whom he then invites to stay. It is not, as a monastery is, a united community with all the warmth and inner politics and tensions and gossip you inevitably get in a community. People come and go. Dorothea is the only woman in the place, apart from a couple of day time maids; and she has her hands full just managing the kitchen. I know how uncomfortable it is, because I lived there for three months; it’s badly heated, inconvenient and grubby. Did he feel lonely?