‘And what if I should meet one who cannot be bribed?’ I asked, thinking all the while of saints.
‘Then add more gold to his palm.’
‘And if still they are not tempted?’
‘Then run for thy dear life, for they are not to be trusted and will betray you for the greedy need they have for their own self-righteousness.’
‘But what of myself? May I be bought in this same manner?’
‘Of course! But never cheaply, a pretty woman must not be deemed an easy purchase. Sylvia, thou must always behave as if thy favours are most difficult to earn and cannot be given up without a struggle. Men treasure most what they cannot obtain. The purse between thy legs must prove most difficult to open and it must only be spent on merchandise that will bring you a rich return. But, know also this, when refusal seems to your disadvantage, think if you abstain a little longer, is there more to gain? If there is, then it is well to remember thy mouth has three amorous uses beside the art of kissing. It can enchant with thy singing, charm with thy sensibility and wit or be used to satisfy a begetting male without yet the need to open your precious purse. Once you have caused him satisfaction, his sword will droop and you may live another day to keep him at bay and so, in the end, gain the greater advantage.’
I did not tell her that I had already learned this third use of my mouth, if only on a marrow. ‘But what of love?’ I asked. ‘If my heart is plundered by some poor but handsome knave, how then will I resist?’
‘Knave!’ she spat, her eyes grown wide. ‘A knave is a servant, a lackey, a monk’s donkey and a kitchen maid’s snatchy catch! No knave should ever be found within your menagerie of men. It is unworthy to marry simply for money, but it is a sensible wench who tarries only where riches may be found and so chances upon her true love. The company you keep should never be cheap and thy dainty lady’s hand must be welcome within your lover’s overflowing and always generous purse.’
‘But what if I am deceived and he, like Reinhardt, outwardly struts the peacock in his finery but his pocket is as bare as a widow’s pantry?’
‘Ah!’ she replied. ‘There are two empty-pocket types you must avoid when speculating upon your future: those who have a full vault and an empty house and those who have a house resplendent in every furnishing but an empty vault. The first is by nature mean, perhaps a miser. And miserly and misery are words that walk hand in hand. The second is a spendthrift and, while often artful and beguiling and always self-indulgent, they are not to be trusted with your love.’
‘Like Reinhardt?’
‘Aye! You learn quickly, Sylvia,’ she laughed, ‘although his affliction is vanity and his amorism lies elsewhere than to capture and then break the heart of a pretty maid.’
‘How then shall I know these two empty-pocket types before they deceive me?’ I asked, thinking meanwhile that my future life was unlikely to encounter either type, or, for that matter, require any of the precautionary ‘purse lessons’ she gave me.
‘Visit their parents,’ she replied. ‘The miser man or woman is over-cautious and frugal, a pessimist by nature, thinking only of the blight brought by ill winds and for their own future safety. The portions on thy plate will be small, the meat, if any, of a middle quality and the wine sour to the taste. If it is the mother who is miser she will look upon you with a wary eye. She will ask the cost of everything you wear and be critical of your shoes that yet wear the soles they carried when first bought. Then she will point to her own, you may be sure they have been to the bootmender so often that they can lead her there while she is blindfolded. If the father he will ask you what goods and gold you bring into the marriage.
‘The other empty-pocket’s offending parent is almost always his mother, who is besotted with her son and will laugh at his merry jakes and indulge him, cajoling her husband to give their son whatsoever he wants, while scolding her scion for his extravagance. He can, in her eyes, do nothing wrong and so she will forgive him his every transgression, though they be constant.’
If I should give the impression that Frau Sarah wished only to turn me into a hard-faced coquette then that would be quite wrong. I was much too young to put any of her tuition into practice. These were simply her beginner’s lessons and, to wit, only a few small stitches in the tapestry of a woman’s life. There was much more of richer weaving to be garnered from her instruction. While she showed me kindness she was also very strict and expected in all things to be obeyed. As I grew more knowledgeable of life and also wilful, I confess I often found her ways constricting and her control to be most arduous. Had it not been for Master Israel and his learning I would much sooner have snapped the reins and spat the bit and as a young filly galloped away, though I now know that had I done so this would have proved to my disadvantage.
Fully a month passed before Master Israel called me to his side and bade me be seated, a chessboard placed between us. ‘Frau Sarah tells me you wish to learn chess, ja?’
‘Yes, Master Israel, I should like that very much.’
‘You are a Gentile and I am a Jew. How does a Jew play chess with a Gentile, fräulein?’
‘Master Israel, I am Sylvia, if you please?’
‘Sylvia If-you-please,’ he said, as though ‘If-you-please’ was a portion of my name, ‘you do not answer my question.’
‘Because there is no answer, Master Israel. You only speculate whether a Gentile plays chess differently to a Jew. How can I know until you teach me how to play? Then, perchance, as a Gentile I may answer your question.’ I said all this in a most demure tone so that he did not think me forward.
‘Aha, that is gut! Sylvia doth answer a question with another better question. That is bold. Ja, gut, at once you are learning the first lesson in chess. “Boldness, will you be my friend?” you are asking when always you open against your opponent. But to know when to be bold, that is the real question.’
‘What be the answer to the question you asked yourself, Master Israel?’ I now asked.
‘What question?’
‘How does a Jew play chess with a Gentile?’
‘Carefully, lest he win,’ he chuckled, then seeing my bemused expression added, ‘This is a Jewish joke.’
I half-laughed, but it would be some time before I understood its meaning. ‘Will you teach me? Frau Sarah says chess be the game of life.’
‘Nay, it is much more, Sylvia. In the game of life we all cheat. In chess, never! You hear, never! To cheat in chess is to defile thy soul.’
‘But you just said a Jew must be careful lest he win against a Gentile. Is that not cheating?’
‘Aye, you are right, it is only a joke, but it is not a joke concerning chess, but of other things between Jew and Gentile. When you are older you will understand.’ He picked up the king. ‘This be the king and he is the all-powerful one.’ Then he picked up the queen. ‘This is the queen. She can be a lover, a witch, a sorceress, a whore, a prophetess or a tender mother. Which of the two do you think is the more powerful, Sylvia?’
‘The queen?’
‘Ja, gut, excellent! So, now we can begin.’
One afternoon shortly after he began to teach me chess we commenced lessons in Latin, and then again shortly after this, he said, ‘Tush! You are quick to learn, we will try you on Hebrew as well. In this way you have the text of the Christian and the text of the Jew and so may inquire in both to find the truth.’
But if both languages came easily to my ear, then chess remained a challenge to my mind. It would take me close to a year before I took a game from Master Israel. It was then that I understood the joke. Only now it was transposed, it was I who should have been careful not to win because winning at chess was something beyond triumph and losing beyond disaster.
Master Israel sat upon his stool all morning, both his hands held to his head, his gaze fixed upon the chessboard with my checkmate displayed before him. ‘Witchery!’ he cried every so often, though this was not intended in my praise but said sincerely. Then he became silen
t and would not speak to me or Frau Sarah or even an important customer. He remained thus for an entire week and Frau Sarah informed me he only picked at his food and lay awake in bed at night. She took me aside. ‘Sylvia, I beseech thee, contest him once more, but I pray most earnestly you lose, because if you win again I fear he will never agree to continue to teach you Latin and Hebrew.’
I well remembered her words on being a woman and how I should regard a man once conquered, ‘to bow to their superiority, exclaim at their profundity and compliment their masculinity’. Her threat that Master Israel might not continue my lessons made me greatly afraid. I was learning so that I might know the truth and so act with integrity to all and not be deceived by others who claimed it without foundation. But if I should betray Master Israel’s trust and allow him to win when the game was mine to take, I would be denying the very truth and integrity I hoped to gain from knowledge. It was thus with a beating heart that I replied, ‘Nay, Frau Sarah, I cannot do that or I betray all that Master Israel hath taught me about chess.’
Frau Sarah became angry, for she had expected me, as I always did, to comply with her wish. ‘For God’s sake, Sylvia! He is only a man!’ she exclaimed. ‘Must I then live with him in this foul humour of thy making?’ She said this puce-lipped and with her eyes grown flinty sharp and, as well, with her peering down the bridge of her nose. I could see she would not accept my refusal.
‘Frau Sarah, please do not fret, we have played a hundred games or more and each time I have lost. That I won one game is nought but a fluke. If we play another Master Israel will most assuredly win it. But I cannot cheat, or he will know himself betrayed and I the same, for I cannot abuse his trust!’
Frau Sylvia jerked her shoulders, then stamped her foot. ‘Get on with it, Sylvia. You are a pretty woman and may betray a man whenever you wish! I have told thee what to do and you will do as I say!’ she shouted angrily.
And so I went to Master Israel. ‘I should much like another match,’ I suggested.
‘Nay! Go away!’ he said, his chin tucked to his chest, all the while the sulky child.
‘Please?’
‘Nay! Nay! Nay! Be off!’ he cried.
‘I will sing your favourite Hebrew song?’
‘Go!’
I did not depart, but began instead to sing the beautiful song of praise from ancient times when the children of Israel were released as slaves and Moses led them out of Egypt. When I reached the part where God parts the Red Sea to let the Jews pass through while drowning the pursuing Egyptian soldiers, Master Israel’s chin rose from his breast and he looked at me. By the time his people had entered Canaan, the land of milk and honey, I had won his heart and he began to weep.
Alas, it was the best game of chess I had ever played and yet again I won. As quietly as my excitement would allow I said, ‘Checkmate!’, then looked up fearfully. Master Israel clapped his hands. ‘Wunderlich!’ he cried, a look of great delight upon his face. ‘The Jew is well beaten! But he is not betrayed!’
That afternoon he said to me, ‘Sylvia, you have almost a year of Latin and speak and comprehend it surprising well and also you speak Hebrew without an accent and you have quickly picked up Yiddish. I have seen you learn more of these languages in months than others have learned in full five years. Your gift of singing and mimicking aids your exceptional ear and your mind is as sharp as a bootmender’s tack. I cannot continue to instruct you in written Latin as you will soon be beyond my knowledge. What say you we teach you Greek and, if you can manage the extra burden of learning, also Aramaic?’
I think perhaps that single moment was the happiest of my life. I knew then that God, in His infinite mercy, had expunged my name from the Book of the Stupid and granted me permission to learn. Moreover, if Master Israel’s praise seemed heaped upon me, it was the first I had received from him and I oft doubted that I pleased him and would sometimes cry at night that on the morrow he might proclaim me not sufficient unto the task of learning. I would cry out in despair to Reinhardt, but he could not help me, as I was now beyond his own knowledge of Latin.
‘If it pleases you, Master Israel, I would very much like to try these two other languages.’
But it was Latin that I must know above all else and I had yet much to learn. Master Israel had taught me to translate what testaments he could obtain, but they were few and when I had completed them he told me that I must henceforth go to the Church, as only the Church possessed the Latin library I would require in the future.
The matter of the blood and the rose was already close to a year past in presentation, first the bishop who took several months to respond and then the archbishop who might take even longer and then, Father Paulus said, perhaps to Rome. ‘Heaven alone knows how long!’ he cried, exasperated, as I knew his ambition was attached to his concern. For my part I hoped it might take forever and then just fade away, even though this would disappoint the two priests a great deal, for they had both worked exceedingly hard to bring the ‘miracle’ to the attention of the Church hierarchy.
However, the whole matter of the Virgin’s white rose and my blood upon it had greatly benefited me. The blessed Father Hermann Joseph had accepted me into his charity work and I now spent every morning among the street children and the desperate poor, with young Nicholas constantly at my side. This work brought me great satisfaction but it also had a disadvantage, for the name Petticoat Angel became one the poor folk and the street children thought of as blessed. It caused me great vexation when they would often kneel in my presence and ask to kiss my hand or that I should give them a blessing. I finally took the matter to Father Hermann.
‘My child, I too felt the same when younger even than you; the acceptance of the apple by the infant Jesus became known and folk would fall to their knees at my approach. You must not see it as a reflection of yourself, but only as God’s work. If piety is the reward for your name and presence, then God is well served.’
‘But I have no right, I feel I blaspheme, Father.’
‘Blaspheme? I think not! What right have you to question God’s word? In thy first confession you persisted with worldly explanations of your past deeds and did not consider that it was your heavenly Saviour who brought these circumstances about.
Your blasphemy lies in your refusal to accept His will and not that people recognise in you the hand of God at work!’
‘But I am not a worthy vessel, Father,’ I persisted.
‘There are none worthy, but some are called despite our sinfulness. Sylvia, I watch your work among the children and the poor and how what you earn is spent on feeding them and it is exceeding good.’ He paused, then said, ‘But it is not sufficient, you must do more.’
‘More, Father? I would willingly, if you show me how.’
‘You must become a nun!’ he said emphatically. ‘God’s work is not just mornings spent with the street children and the poor, it is every moment of thy being.’
I was deeply shocked and had no immediate reply except to say, ‘Father, I am not yet ready for a nun’s habit.’
‘Think upon it, my child. Do not kick against the thorns of righteousness. God’s work is never easy, but His will is a divine instruction and must be obeyed.’
‘I have tried to do as much as I can, Father,’ I said, a little hurt. From the day when he first had me sing the solo part in mass as part penance, I had attended every morning afterwards to do the same. I had been called upon to sing before the bishop on several occasions and sang again at Sunday worship. Every morning after mass I devoted to working among the street children and the poor. There were to my observation very few nuns who contributed as much as I did. I simply could not see myself cloistered in a convent with my every movement and thought controlled by an abbess who thought me all the while a peasant and used me for kitchen and garden duties.
I could not bring myself to decide upon Father Hermann’s instructions, even though they had been couched as God’s own word. If Father Hermann knew of my thirst for kno
wledge he had not taken this into consideration when asking me to become a novice in a nunnery. Learning was not his inclination and he admitted to being a poor student. I had never seen him with a book. Although he had composed the hymn Summi Regis cor aveto, which I sang constantly for his pleasure and whenever he presided as the priest who delivered the morning sermon, he had, he told me, received a great deal of help with its Latin transcription. His poems, though numerous, were simple in composition and mostly not written down and all in endless praise of Mary. While I would not say so to anyone, I thought they were simplistic and Reinhardt would have composed them a great deal better.
Master Israel had commenced to teach me Greek and Aramaic and I was greatly taken up with learning these two languages. While my work with Frau Sarah was of the least concern, I enjoyed it and it paid for food for the poor. It was all very well for Father Hermann to speak as he had. He had been ecstatically connected with the Virgin and the Church since the age of seven. At the age of twelve he had offered himself to the Premonstratensian monastery, but was too young to be accepted as a monk. Nevertheless he used his every available moment in prayer to Mary (whom he called ‘The mystical rose’), until he was ordained and could devote himself entirely to the cause of our Saviour and his beloved Virgin. Apart from being a very good repairer of clocks, he knew no other vocation. I did not see myself doing God’s work wearing the habiliment of a nun and so I tried, though always gently but with no less determination, to resist what Father Hermann referred to as ‘Your divine calling’.
But now, with Master Israel having exhausted his knowledge of Latin and lacking any Latin text to take me further, I would have to choose to curtail my studies except for what I might find to read outside the libraries of the Church. The alternative was to take the chance that by becoming a novice in a nunnery I might be allowed access to a library.
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