by Anne Boileau
He has a boil on his chin – I want to draw out the pus with a bran poultice and smear it with honey and clary sage. He complains of gallstones and Barbara has prepared infusions of of blackthorn leaves for him, but I am sure that with his mind on higher things, writing sermons and doing translation, he’ll just forget to prepare them when he gets home. Dorothea is not the mothering type, so she doesn’t look after him as he needs to be looked after, as I would. As I want to. Gradually it dawns on me how much I admire his intelligence, his humour, his earthiness.
He has courage. When he published the Ninety-Five Theses he knew full well the risk he was taking. He knows full well what happened to earlier rebels like Jan Hus and Jerome of Prague a hundred years ago. They were burnt at the stake as heretics. That could have happened to the Doctor after the Diet of Worms; it could still happen. There are those even today who would gladly see him dead. Herr Cranach thinks that if the Emperor Charles had not been waging war in France he would have hunted Martin down when he emerged from hiding in the Wartburg. But Hus said this before they killed him in Konstanz: “Today you kill a goose (which is Hus in the Czech language) but later will come a swan, which you will not be able to kill!”
Over the next few days I spent a lot of time in quiet prayer to our Lord and to the Blessed Virgin, but being very careful not to ask for anything. I just prayed that His will be done, in this as in all things. I had been taught never to ask for selfish things in my prayers. To hope for what I want may be to hope for the wrong thing. Yet I am filled with a deep conviction, that it was not wrong to say what I did say to von Amsdorf, whatever the consequences. All the same and just in case, I offer up prayers to St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, for this most unlikely of outcomes.
I was in the kitchen garden with Elsa thinning beetroot seedlings when young Lucas came out to find me.
“Tante Katharina, my Father wants to speak to you. Up in his studio. He says, can you come up?”
“Thank you, Lucas, I’ll be with him shortly.”
I wondered what he could want with me. He had never invited me up to his studio before; it was a male preserve, women went there only to sit to him. I hurried indoors, washed my hands, took off my apron and straightened my hair. I walked up the stairs and through the first studio, where five assistants were at work. They looked at me curiously as I greeted them; I knocked on Herr Cranach’s door.
“Enter.”
He was sitting at his enormous desk, with papers spread out upon it. He is an imposing man with a long white beard and stern appraising eyes. He has a way of looking at you up and down as if assessing your proportions, planning to paint you. He is old enough to be my father, and quite a bit older than his wife. His voice is quiet but full of authority and I have never heard him raise it in anger. He is a stern but fair master; his apprentices are lucky and they know it. All the same, I am cautious in his presence.
He bade me sit down. In the corner was an easel, and the room smelt of linseed oil and turpentine. He was wearing his painter’s smock and had obviously stopped work for a few minutes.
“The Doctor came to see me this morning.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. It was about you.”
I felt myself blushing and lowered my eyes. My fingernails, I can’t get them clean, all that weeding and thinning. And the skin is dry, I must get some more hand cream.
“I have something important to tell you. When I tell you, you must take your time before making a decision.”
He cleared his throat and stood up, as if what he was about to say was awkward and he was thinking how he should put it. I thought I knew what was coming. He stood with his back to the window, stroking his beard and staring at me. His eyes are so piercing!
“Dr Luther has asked me to put a proposal to you on his behalf. He asked me to ask you, with the greatest respect and honour, if you would consider becoming his wife. I must say, I have never been asked to make a proposal by proxy before, but it seems that he cannot bring himself to do it. I am, so to speak, his agent in this matter. So, Katharina, there it is. As I said, I would advise you to take your time, not to rush into anything. Ponder on it, say your prayers; discuss it with my wife; I cannot offer you advice. Ultimately, it must be your decision and yours alone.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God! He is proposing marriage to me?”
“He is asking you to be his wife, Kathe, yes. To be Frau Dr Luther.”
“Herr Cranach. I must confess, I am speechless.”
“I`ll say it again. Take your time. No need to hurry. I will tell him I have passed on the message. When you have considered it carefully, you can give him an answer. I will not presume to offer you advice.”
“Thank you, Herr Cranach.”
“Goodbye then, dear girl. I’ll see you this evening. Better not tell the boys. Keep it to yourself until you’ve come to a decision.”
I got up to leave the studio, but before I reached the door he said, “And Käthchen, my dear, you are like a daughter to Barbara and me. We wish you the very best. Do not feel in any way pressured. You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like, as a member of our family. I want to tell you this so that you can consider your options before deciding what to say to him.”
When he said this I felt close to tears, and went over to him and gave him a big hug. I love him, almost like a father, because I suppose he has filled the absence of my own father.
I left the studio in a daze. I remember nothing about leaving it, or what I did after seeing Herr Cranach. I think I must have gone to my room but somehow I was in a state of shock. It was one thing daydreaming about possibly marrying the Doctor. But now that he had proposed, I felt excited, but frightened too. Was I capable of managing a man of this stature and importance? Could I do it? On the other hand, why shouldn’t I be up to the task? I want to do something with my life, to be useful, to channel my energies into some worthwhile work. Here is a man who needs the help and support of a capable woman. But on the other hand, it may be dangerous, to live with a man who is hated by the powerful, whom some would gladly see dead.
That afternoon I went up to Barbara’s bedroom. She was sitting on a nursing chair beside the bed feeding the baby. I sat on the window seat and watched her. The baby looked up when I came in, then went back to her mother’s breast and sucked and grunted and wriggled her arms and legs. How fast babies grow, she seems almost too big now to be at the breast.
“What’s happened, Kathe?”
“Barbara, Lucas has talked to me. He made me a proposal of marriage by proxy!”
“Yes, I heard about that. You’ve made a conquest, Kathe!”
“You knew about it already? You know who it is?”
“Yes, Lucas did tell me. I don’t want to say anything, Kathe, because I think you must make your own mind up on this. You know I love the Doctor, we all do. But we love you too, and we want you to make the right decision. Don’t rush into anything. Take your time and be absolutely sure before you say yes or no.”
I hugged Barbara too, awkwardly over the little Barbara, now asleep in her mother’s arms, smelling milky and cosy.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I was faced with the most momentous decision of my life. The world spun round with images of what might be: me as the lady of the Black Cloister, being hostess to his important guests from far away; landlady of his resident students. Me, walking arm in arm with the great man down the streets of Wittenberg, exchanging greetings; “Good Day Doktor, Good Day Frau Doktor.” Me, having to go into his house and sort it out, clean it up, modernise it; having to assert myself over Dorothea. Then I fell to thinking about the more intimate side of marriage. Sharing a bed with him. His large peasant’s hands exploring my body. His kisses. Congress. Such thoughts about Hieronymous had set me on fire, but with him? I was not exactly repelled, but nor was I drawn to the idea.
But then I think about his power over other people. The hush when he walks into a room, or stands in the pulpit before a crowde
d congregation. His presence at meal times, the way people listen when he tells a story or sings a song. The Cranach children gather round him and plead with him to play his lute and sing. His nimble fingers on the strings, his deep, melodious voice.
Yet for all his fame throughout the world, for all his power, knowledge and intellect, he seems vulnerable and rather lonely. Of course women always think men on their own are in need of a good woman. But I can’t help feeling pity when I imagine him alone in that great Black Cloister, with only a housekeeper and a maid and a string of itinerant guests and students; a man eating alone, praying alone, sleeping alone.
I had to give him an answer, yes or no. Then I knew what I would do. I rose before dawn and milked the goats. Then, as the sky began to brighten, and the stars retreated, I let myself out of the house and set off to walk across the town. Market day, and the stalls were being put up. Women were setting out their produce: great mounds of asparagus, both white and green; pink and red rhubarb with large umbrella leaves; carrots and turnips, early spinach, onions and garlic. There were fowls in cages and freshwater clams in boxes of damp moss; rabbits hanging in clumps, heads down. But I wasn’t shopping, I was on another mission. I passed the Old Friary, now encased in scaffolding, being converted into a school for boys. I ignore the ribald remarks of the builders, who are already hoisting up buckets of mortar and bricks on pulleys. The sun has burst up behind the church towers, throwing brightness and shadows onto the highest roofs. Swifts swoop screeching in the shade between the houses and in the sky above swallows are dipping and flirting in circles. It’s a crisp, cool May morning.
I reach the house with its studded oak door and pull on the bell rope. Inside, the hollow clanging followed by footsteps. Two eyes peer at me through the peephole, then the maid recognises me, unbolts the door and lets me in.
“Good morning, Fräulein von Bora. Do come in. Would you kindly wait a minute while I tell Madam you’re here.”
“I hope it’s not too early for her.”
I stand in the grand hall, staring round at the carved furniture, the Turkish rugs on the walls, a lantern clock ticking from its high shelf; in the empty fireplace are five madonna lilies in a tall blue and white Chinese vase. This is the wealth of a successful merchant. How different it is from the spare furnishings in Luther’s Cloister, or the restrained prosperity of the Cranach House.
“Katharina my dear girl, what a pleasant surprise. I don’t usually get visitors so early – I’m barely out of bed and as you see my hair is not yet dressed.”
“I’m so sorry, Frau Reichenbach, but I really had to talk to you.”
“My child, are you in trouble? No, I can see you’re not. In fact, you’re glowing with health. Don’t tell me, is it love? I can’t wait to hear, come, let’s go into the parlour and you can tell me everything.”
We went through into the smaller room, the tile oven warm and the room smelling of wood smoke. We sat down facing each other at the round table draped in a sumptuous oriental carpet.
“Frau Reichenbach, I want your advice. I have to make a decision. An important decision..”
“You’ve had a proposal, am I right?”
I blushed and looked down at the pattern of red and blue and white of the rug from Turkey.
“Yes.”
“And am I allowed to know the identity of this courageous suitor?”
Frau Reichenbach always makes me laugh. But my laughter dissolved with no warning into tears; I had had a sleepless night and the strain was telling on me.
“Go on, dear girl, go ahead and cry.” She fished a hanky out of her pocket and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.
“It’s Dr Luther. He wants to marry me.”
She became suddenly grave.
“Well now. The good Doctor himself. Well, well, well. Did this come out of the blue or were you sort of expecting it? Has he been courting you?”
“No, he hasn’t. No flowers or poems or declarations, nothing like that. In fact, he got Lucas Cranach to make the proposal, he didn’t actually ask me in person.”
“What did you say? He got Lucas to propose to you on his behalf?”
“Yes. Yesterday, it was. So last night, I couldn’t sleep a wink.”
“I’ll bet you couldn’t. My goodness, Kathe, this has taken me by surprise, I must say. Have you asked Barbara and Lucas? What do they think about it?”
“They won’t advise, they say I’ve got to decide for myself…”
“They’re right, of course. It’s your life, your future, it must be your decision.”
“But it’s too big for me. I prayed and prayed but got no sign. I thought you might be able to help. What would you do, in my position?” I twisted the taffeta hanky round and round, turning it into a damp little sausage.
“What I would do is quite irrelevant, child; it’s what you are going to do, and what in your heart you feel is right. What does the good Lord want you to do? Suppose I ask you a few questions, would you answer them straight away, without thinking? Answer from your heart with no hesitation?”
I nodded.
“All right then, first question: Do you like Dr Luther?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you admire him?”
“Yes, I admire him enormously. But I’m also rather scared of him.”
“I think we all are. Even the Pope and the Emperor. Next question: have you ever considered him as a possible husband?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have. You see, Frau Reichenbach, he proposed to Ave, last year. She turned him down, though, because she and Basilius were already unofficially betrothed; but I realised then that I felt quite jealous – because Dr Luther had chosen her and not me.”
“You wished he had proposed to you instead of to your friend?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I think that’s understandable. After all, it was he who helped you to escape from the convent in the first place. Next question: You like him, admire him, are a bit scared of him. Do you think he is a good man, a godly man?”
“Yes, I do. Children love him. Animals love him. I always think that’s a good sign. Godly? Yes, that too, he’s very devout. Though he does have quite a temper, I’ve seen him shaking in rage, red in the face with fury at people, if they’ve been slow or idle or somehow annoyed him. His tongue can be horribly cutting.”
“So you like him, admire him, think he’s good and devout, but you’re a bit scared of his temper and his razor tongue. Next question: Can you imagine being his wife? Do you think you could handle a man like that? Larger than life, powerful, brave, good but temperamental?”
“I think I could. I think I could help him. I’d run his house, tidy up the garden, get some pigs in the sty and bees for his empty hives. I’d get in two nanny goats too and clean out the dairy.”
“And what about the housekeeper, what’s her name?”
“Dorothea.”
“Yes, Dorothea. Could you work with her? She’s a forceful woman and older than you.”
“I am a bit scared of her too. I think she might resent some other woman coming in and trying to take over.”
“All right, let’s pretend you’ve coped with Dorothea and gone into the Cloister with your new broom and swept and dusted and polished. You’ve revamped the livestock and the kitchen garden. Now, what about Dr Luther’s work? In what way do you think his work would be affected by your presence in his life? Indeed, would your presence as a wife be a help or would you take up his precious time seeking his attention and affection? From your own point of view, don’t you think he might lock himself away in his Tower Room and you would never see him? Would that bother you?”
“No it wouldn’t. I would never interfere or come between him and his work – it is everything to him. His translations, his lectures, his sermons, his writing – he has to carry on, that is his life’s work; I’m sure his name will live on for hundreds of years after he’s gone because of what he has done, I feel that very strongly. So I wo
uld never get in the way of his work, I would help him, encourage him, keep him well fed, and healthy. So that if anything he would work even better with me at his side to help him.”
“Katharina, my dear girl. You don’t need my advice. It is quite clear to me what you want to do and I think it’s probably fairly clear to you. So go home now and write him a letter, saying you would like to speak to him. When the two of you meet, see what you feel then. You don’t have to say yes or no straight away. It is a woman’s prerogative to keep a man waiting. But if you want my opinion – nothing to do with what I myself would do, mind you – my opinion is that if you did decide to say yes you would rise to the challenge of being married to such a man; and it would be a challenge, make no bones about that. And I think that you could do the job well. It may be God giving you an important task to do. It’s not for me to say this, but of course you need to ask guidance from our Lord. Listen to him in your prayers. I’m sure you have already. But you must be sure. Dear girl, I’m so pleased you came to consult me. I am flattered that you think an old trout like me can give you advice, when you’re quite capable of making your own mind up! I look forward to hearing what happens next.”
“Thank you, Frau R. You’ve been such a help.”
“I’ve done nothing. I’ve listened to you, sorting it out for yourself.” We both stood up and she gave me a big hug. Her ample chest felt warm and squidgy and reassuring.
When I stepped out into the street the sun was up and the streets growing warmer; I walked on light feet across the square, which was crowded now with shoppers and traders, the market in full swing; I was not shopping now. Instead I went into the church and fell down on my knees and prayed. I prayed so hard that it hurt. I prayed to Mary, to Saint Anne, to Saint Katharina; I prayed to Jesus and to God the Father himself. I prayed to them all, to give me a sign.