by Anne Boileau
Now and then he helps with haymaking, gardening or harvest and I try to encourage him in this, because he needs the fresh air and exercise. What remains constant, like a beacon of tranquillity, is the peace of our Sundays. Martin and I have had our differences. We’ve had several fiery fights – but we have never yet quarrelled on a Sunday afternoon. Martin calls it close season. We both, instinctively, avoid touchy topics on that day.
He’s not an easy man to live with but I’m learning. When you put a stockpot on the range it can boil over, the lid pushes up and boiling liquid spills out onto the hot metal – which hisses and gives off steam and a scorching smell. So what do you do? You move the pot to a cooler place where it can simmer gently. Herr Doktor and I have been looking for a good spot for simmering, avoiding contentious areas which can lead to boiling over; on the whole I think we have found it, a good modus vivendi. I am mistress of the household. Himself is master of the table, of conversation and being a genial host to our guests. And of course it stands to reason I never interfere with his academic and pastoral work.
Sometimes our visitors have important matters to discuss, for which they travel far on perilous roads to see Martin: theology, the liturgy, the art of translation; or the rebellious peasants, politics, the future of the Church in Rome; on these occasions I tend to leave them to it. I eat quietly in the kitchen with Dorothea and Agnes and we women take it in turns to make sure they have enough to eat and drink. A sisterly warmth has developed between us women. Working together under pressure makes for a feeling of closeness, as we used to find in the convent.
He can be master of the table and I can be mistress of the rest. I support him in his work and he appreciates that. But at night, when the house sleeps, the candles are snuffed and bedroom doors are shut, he becomes mine, and mine alone. That is when we remind ourselves that getting married to each other was the best thing we have ever done. Admittedly, I sometimes have to count to ten before responding to some of his outbursts or patronising remarks. But Sundays are special; he is always more equable on the Lord’s Day.
This particular Sunday was windy but not cold; a strong south-westerly was snatching the last leaves off the elms behind the cloister. The inclement weather outside made us feel all the more snug in our little parlour. The fire crackled and hissed, the logs sometimes shifting and settling. We sat together on the oak settle with red velvet cushions, our feet on stools, staring into the flames. Tölpel slept by the hearth. I took his hand in mine and stroked it.
“I had a letter yesterday.”
“Oh yes, who from?”
“From my aunt. Tante Lena, my father’s sister. She was a nun with me at Marienthron. They’ve closed down the convent.”
“So where is she now?”
“She’s at Lippendorf, with my parents. But she’s not happy there. Martin, could she come and stay here with us, at least for a little while?”
“Of course she can, dear girl. She can stay for as long as she likes. This house is your house. Our families are one. She’ll be a friend for you. Besides, you could do with another pair of hands about the house now with the baby on the way.”
“Shall I read to you what she writes?”
“Yes, do.”
Lippendorf, 4th November 1525
Dearest Niece Katharina
I hope you are well and that married life agrees with you. I was so pleased for you, and proud too, when you wrote and told me of your marriage to the famous Dr Luther. Who would have believed it, eleven years ago, when you first took your vows?
You will have heard by now, Marienthron Convent has been closed down. I had no choice but to throw myself on the mercy of your Father and Stepmother. They were kind and took me in, and I do my best to help in the garden and the kitchen. However, they have difficulties of their own and I don’t want to outstay my welcome. I am writing to ask you and your husband whether I might be able to come and stay with you in Wittenberg, at least for a little while. I have no money and no friends. The outside world is not as I remember it; I find it hostile and frightening. Single women are suspect and no one seems to value quiet prayer. I hope you do not mind my asking you for help.
Please commend me to your husband.
Your affectionate Aunt Magdalena.
“You must write back to her at once. With any luck she can get here before Christmas. I’ll apply to the Council for her residency tomorrow.”
“Oh thank you, Martin. I’m so excited, it’ll be lovely to have her here!”
I wrote back to her that evening.
Wittenberg, November 17th 1525
Dearest Tante Lena,
Our home is your home. We’ve already decided which room you shall have. Martin was delighted when I suggested to him that you come and live with us. He said: ‘Another pair of hands, Käthchen, and a kinswoman, just when you need more help. What good fortune.’ He is referring to the fact that I am with child! You can help me in the garden, particularly with the herbs; we have bees too, and you are skilled at managing hives. Then I have to oversee the linen cupboard, the dairy (though we only have three goats as yet, no cows) and brewing. Not to mention simply getting food onto the table day after day, for our lodgers or visitors. The men sit at the refectory table, the one the monks used to eat at, listening to Martin, learning from him. They discuss religion and politics and the meaning of life and the life hereafter. They tell stories and jokes and as the evening wears on their speech grows bawdy and maudlin and Latin gets mixed up with German, often in strong dialect!
Meanwhile, they absently shovel away any food and drink we women put before them. I think talking and arguing must make men hungry. All that food and beer, and they never seem to wonder where it comes from, or who has produced and prepared it. Though I can tell you, dear aunt, if one evening the table were bare, then they would notice soon enough! I’m always a bit annoyed by the story about Mary and Martha – Mary gets all the praise for sitting at our Lord’s feet, listening to Him, while poor old Martha slaves away in the kitchen and scullery getting the meal ready and gets no thanks or appreciation. Nothing changes!
I was in such a temper a few days ago (feeling like Martha, no doubt!), and I banged a pitcher of beer down on the table so hard it tipped over and splashed several guests. They were silenced for a minute, then they all got up in a flurry of mopping up and tut-tutting. I just stood and watched them in their confusion, but as I stomped back out to the kitchen I heard Martin say: “If I can withstand the rage of the devil and sins and a bad conscience, then I can withstand the rage of Katharina von Bora.” They all laughed heartily at that, and the conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.
I’m painting a picture of such toil and strife and you probably won’t want to come and join us in Wittenberg. I must admit, I do get quite tired, I have two women to help me in the house, apart from two little maids who come in by the day; and you know what the autumn is like, you just have to keep on putting by, or suddenly it’s too late. But I’m glad to say our larder and cellar are full and we’ve enough fodder too. Food is not easy to come by; these are troubled times, even here in Wittenberg, though many people flock here as refugees, thinking it’s a haven of peace and security. Which means you need all the more food, for all the extra residents.
Then there’s the small matter of money: My husband hates to ask our guests for payment, he prefers to dish out hospitality for free, but who is to pay for all this food, the laundry, the fuel, the labour? So it falls to me to ask them; I usually write out a little bill, and hand it to them with a smile, saying sweetly: ‘It’s been so nice having you with us’. Usually they pay up. Only twice have guests left without paying; then I make a mental note to take payment in advance if they should ever turn up here again!
But enough of our domestic worries. I cannot think of anything nicer than to have your company. You can help us just by being here, to bring your calmness and wisdom and prayers to a rather stormy household. And when my time comes, you will be here for me. Als
o, you can advise us on Martin’s stomach cramps, I have tried a great many remedies but he still suffers and our physician is running out of ideas.
I’ve been going on about us, but what about you? You must have had a difficult time, being thrown out into the wide world; it must have been worse for you than for me; I ran away of my own free will, but you had no choice but to go; I was behind convent walls for only fifteen years, whereas you must have been there almost thirty. The world must have changed a great deal since you were last outside its confines.
So dear Aunt, please do come to Wittenberg, as soon as you can arrange your journey; if you have difficulty paying the fare, the Doctor says we can send you a permit to travel. He also says, avoid travelling alone, try to find a trustworthy man to travel with, someone who is going at least part of the way. We are applying to the Council for you to become a resident, a member of this household. We are sending you under separate cover a letter of recommendation to ease your passage here from Leipzig.
Please give my love to Father.
I remain your affectionate niece,
Katharina von Bora.
My aunt’s reply arrived in under three weeks; the postal service is remarkably good, considering everything.
Lippendorf December 2nd 1525
Dear Kate
I was overjoyed to receive your letter, which arrived safely via the bookbinder in Leipzig. The messenger boy is staying the night, so I write to you by return. I am excited at the prospect of living with you and Dr Luther.
Yes, the shock of being outside the walls of Marienthron is only just beginning to wear off. I want to cover my face from the gaze of men, they look at me with hatred in their eyes. Only last week I was shopping in the market and a man selling pots spat at my feet. Men smell so strong, it almost nauseates me, I need to hold a pomander to my face. They seem to know instinctively that I was a nun, even though I do my best to cover my cropped head. Society is so unsettled! Before I took the veil, the peasants and trades people were prosperous but they were respectful too. Growing up at Lippendorf, the peasants would doff their caps to us as we drove in our carriage, and they called me Miss Magdalena. Now they look at us direct in the eye, with insolence and hostility. Then there’s the highways – they used to be properly maintained, the trees and scrub cut back along them, to keep them safe. They’re now full of pot-holes, they’ve become dark, spooky tunnels in many places and you never know who might leap out at you. And the houses! So many farms and cottages dilapidated, abandoned; the cattle are thin, fields lie fallow, rank with thistles. And for all their insolence, the people look anxious and hungry too.
I am fearful of going out on my own. Last week I drove with your father to the village, we were taking a pig to the butcher. A great crowd was assembled in the square; what do you think it was for? They were milling around a pyre, watching a public burning! The victim was already dead, blackened and curling up, it was horrible, the stench of roasting flesh, like pork but sweeter. Your father knew all about it.
“Oh yes, that’ ll be old Mother Rappolt. She lived on her own in a thatched hovel down there by the river. She’s said to have had sixteen children by sixteen different men. She was a well-known witch. She grows – sorry, used to grow – herbs and concocted elixirs and infusions, and the poor called her in as a midwife. She used to sing songs in the street, about how the plants spoke to her in dreams. The authorities tolerated her as being a trifle touched as well as immoral. But last year, she was spotted flying on her broom across the river at dusk for an assignation with the devil. It wasn’t just once, either, she was seen by several different witnesses on different nights, so it must have been true. I understand she was tried in the usual way and convicted of witchcraft.”
Hans picked up the whip to tickle the pony’s back and hummed a little tune to himself. What shocked me, even more than the sight of the pyre and the gawping crowd, was Hans’s indifference to the old woman’s plight. He does not seem to make the connection between her and me! I grow herbs and make remedies, though I have not yet been called upon to deliver a baby. I am a single woman too. Supposing they suddenly suspected that I was a witch? If accusing fingers were to start pointing in my direction, who would stand up for me? I suspect not even my own brother.
I ought not to be ungrateful, your Father and Margarethe have taken me in and been very kind, but I should not impose on them much longer. So I look forward so much to joining you in Wittenberg and meeting your husband. I hope I may be a help to you and all those who you live with.
Your devoted Tante Lena.
So my father’s sister came to live with us three weeks later, and has settled in to our routine. She helps me in more ways than I can say.
Chapter 19
The Good Book
Ich möchte alle meine Bücher ausgetilgt haben, damit über die heiligen Dinge nur noch in der Bibel gelesen würde.
I should like to have all my books eradicated so that on matters of divinity people would look no further than the Bible.
The great bell in the church tower was just striking one – the midday meal had been served and cleared away and I had climbed up slowly to our room for my rest. My body was growing heavy and I felt very tired. March had been cold and this winter seemed to have gone on far too long; I felt like hibernating. But we women have to keep going, whether or not we are pregnant or with small children to care for. I was just settling into bed when the door creaked open; my husband came in sideways, pushing it with his shoulder, holding a rectangular parcel wrapped up in blue linen. With an almost reverential gesture he laid it before me on the bed. He was grinning like a small boy.
“Go on. Open it,” he said.
“Is it what I think it is?”
“Probably. Unwrap it. It’s for you.”
Gingerly I untied the blue cloth tape and folded back the linen. It lay before me, glowing; the most beautiful book you could imagine, bound in brown vellum; on its spine, in gold letters, PENTATEUCH and HISTORICAL BOOKS. I opened the frontispiece, and saw the elaborated title, scrolled about with pictures:
Herein in the German Language are compiled the following Books from the Old Testament, translated from the Hebrew by Dr Martin Luther.
Illustrated by Lucas Cranach. Printed by Melchior Lotther and Published by Lucas Cranach, Wittenberg 1525.
I turned the pages one by one, marvelling at their beauty and precision. I saw woodcuts of animals, birds, trees, Adam and Eve. I saw the bold clear print, on the fine paper from Milan; I smelt the odour of well-cured calfskin.
“Well? What do you think?”
“It’s wonderful, Husband. Quite wonderful.”
“And the binding? How do you like the binding?”
“It’s very fine. How many have been bound like this?”
“Only four. One for you and me; one for the Town Church; one for the Elector and one for my Father and Mother. The other volumes will be shipped without binding.”
“And it’s just in time for the Frankfurt Book Fair. They must be so relieved to have got it out in time!”
“They are. The whole team are taking the afternoon off to celebrate, having completed the stitching. The boys are packing them up for shipment. Barbara’s arranging a feast for Thursday night, they’ve already killed a fat weaner and the butcher’s preparing it.”
The book filled me with awe. New books always do, especially when it’s one of Martin’s. With the printing press it is possible for my husband to write an essay, a sermon, a pamphlet, or even to say something at mealtimes – his words are always noted down by Rörer – and within a few days it can be printed and distributed throughout the civilised world. He said once at supper “I fart today and they smell it in Rome tomorrow!” (He can be very vulgar, my husband.)
Most of what he writes is in Latin, intended for academics, clerics, philosophers, theologians; his readers are all over the world: Avignon, Rome or Lucca, Seville or Toledo, Oxford, Paris, Ghent or Elsinore. Whatever he writes is pounced on, prin
ted, published and distributed within a few weeks. For this reason, more and more printers are setting up shop here in Wittenberg. They recognise a good market and want to take advantage of a famous name and a famous place.
I had in fact seen the five books already, published separately, but now they were beautifully bound together in one edition, called the PENTATEUCH. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy.
“Surely the power of the word will win over the power of the sword,” said Martin. “Pray God the peasants will not misconstrue the message again, and use it as an excuse to go on the rampage. They heard Saint Paul’s letter to the Galatians: ‘For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.’ But they were deaf to the next part, where he warns them to use the freedom wisely: ‘Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another… If you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another’.
“I feel bad, Kathe, because they did and it was because of what I said. Never before has the power of the word sent such shockwaves round the world; we thinkers have to weigh our words with care, now that they can be broadcast so far and so fast! I heard today that there’s been a revolt in Nördlingen; the peasants and the poorer townspeople, the weavers, basket makers and butchers banded together to overthrow the Council; the Council wanted to bring in the League to suppress them, but in the end they reached some sort of compromise. Not before some bloodshed, though, and battles in the streets and outside the city gates. The ringleaders have been hanged, I’m glad to say.”