by Anne Boileau
I lit my candle, said goodnight and went first to the washroom to rinse out my apron and wash my hands. Then with a heavy heart and a dry mouth I climbed the stairs to my room and crept into bed. I clipped her flesh, her poor fingertips, not just her feathers. I lay bunched up in a tight ball, the feather bed enveloping me; I smelled my body; my sweaty armpits, my slightly fishy feminine moisture, my pungent feet like ripe goats’ cheese. Barbara was aloof and cool towards me. I sensed that in some way I was displeasing her. Then I thought about my faithless lover and tears slid down my cheeks onto my pillow. I was a linnet once, singing from the top of a tree. Now I was caged and mute. My inner voice said: ‘Accept it, Kathe, he’s not coming back. He’s forgotten you.’
Chapter 11
A Debate
Wir sind besser geschickt zu verzweifeln denn zu hoffen. Denn Hoffen ist aus dem Geist Gottes, aber Verzweifeln ist aus unserm eigenen Geist.
We are better at being anxious than being hopeful. Because hope comes from the spirit of God but anxiety comes from our own spirit.
The kitchen was hot and dark, reeking of blood and beasts’ innards. It was the eve of Saint Martin’s and two pigs had been slaughtered. The carcasses were hanging from their hocks in the meat larder. I kept looking at their pale eyelashes, so perfect, like everything else about them. Now we were dealing with the ‘fifth quarter’: hearts, tongues, bladders and lights must all be put to use, nothing goes to waste. The skins to the tanner, the trotters, tails, snouts and ears to the renderer, the rest we process ourselves. Every part of a pig has value except the squeal, they say, and it’s true, the pig is one of man’s best friends.
Chopping up offal, frying onions, making breadcrumbs, mixing, stuffing skins and bladders. Boiling up oats in the blood, black pudding, blood sausage, liver cheese; I’d had enough. My gorge was rising at the smell of death; I kept seeing the pigs as they had been the day before, greedy, curious, sociable. We had raised them from new-born piglets, each one with its own character. But in the blood month such thoughts are not helpful.
I needed fresh air; it was one of those sublime autumn days, when the light is crystal clear, the sky bright blue like the lapis lazuli Herr Cranach uses for the Virgin’s cloak; the few remaining linden leaves glowed like the gold leaf he uses for halos and the borders of the angels’ gowns.
“Barbara, I can I take a break?”
“Of course, Käthe, we can manage now. Go out and enjoy the sunshine.”
I washed my hands and removed my bloodstained apron; I took my woollen cloak from the hook by the back door, picked up the mending basket and escaped through the scullery into the cobbled yard; it was mild for November, the warmth of the low sun especially delicious because you know it cannot last. I was going to sit on the bench against the southern wall but was surprised to see four figures already there, deep in conversation.
It was Philip Melanchthon with three house guests; Herr and Frau Holzschuher who stopped by on their way home from Carlsbad, and an older woman who I hadn’t seen before. Not wanting to disturb them, I walked towards the walled garden, but Philip saw me and stood up.
“Good day, Fräulein von Bora. Please come and join us. We are trying to sort out the world and its many problems.” So saying, he offered me his seat.
“I don’t wish to intrude.”
I hoped I did not smell too strongly of blood and slaughter.
“You’re not intruding,” said Philip. “We could do with some light relief couldn’t we? Allow me to introduce Herr and Frau Holzschuher, from Nürnberg.”
“Good day to you. Yes indeed, we have met before.”
It was he who had told us at table, to my confusion, about the betrothal of Hieronymous, when young Lucas had been indiscreet and I had left the room in a hurry. I hoped the couple had forgotten the incident.
“And Fräulein Biber. May I present Fräulein von Bora, who lives here with the Cranachs.”
We shook hands all round and I took Philip’s place while he fetched another chair from across the yard.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged about the fine day and the arduous business of butchering; I observed Philip’s companions. Herr Jakob Holzschuher was a heavy-set man, I guessed in his early forties, with a well-trimmed brown beard and thick curly hair; he had a broad belly, piercing brown eyes and was wearing costly coat of beaver and brocade; his knee high boots were made of the best calfskin. His wife was a well-built woman, and wore a green velvet dress with black satin trim and a fur lined worsted cloak; her hair was dressed in elaborate plaits and ribbons, an exotic style for Saxony. She smiled warmly and laid a heavily jewelled hand on mine, in a gesture which meant, ‘we women, we understand the burdens of running a house.’
“Ah, the fifth quarter, it’s quite a task, but satisfying too, especially if the beasts have done well.”
The other woman sat quite still. She was older, about fifty, I would guess. Her head was covered with a white linen cap; her plain grey dress had been carefully darned in several places. Her face was angular and pale; had it not been for her hazel eyes, which had a twinkle in them, she could have seemed quite stern. Our eyes met and in a flash of recognition we both knew: we were – or had been – Brides of Christ. There was an affinity, a sense of sisterhood, between us.
“Have you travelled far, ma’am?” I asked of her.
“I have come from Arlsdorf convent. Herr and Frau Melanchthon have kindly taken me in for the time being.”
“We heard that your house had been dissolved. Was it a shock for you?”
Fräulein Biber hesitated.
“Not really. I think we had been expecting it, but all the same it was, shall we say, disruptive.” She gave a rueful chuckle.
“But if it was God’s will that the convent be closed, we have to accept that. All our community are scattered to the four winds, and we have to find some other way of being useful in the modern world. Jesus taught us not to worry, what shall I eat tomorrow, what shall I wear. I am confident the Lord will provide.” Silence fell.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I’ve interrupted your conversation. Please carry on.”
I took up my sewing.
“Well, as I was saying,” said Herr Holzschuher, clearing his throat and slapping his knees, “However painful it may be for some, nothing should be allowed to halt the progress of the new reforms. We can no longer tolerate the superstitions of the Roman Church and the nonsense doled out to the masses, nor Rome’s corruption and autocracy. Who is Pope Leo to decide how we are to worship and what we may read?”
“But my dear,” said his wife gently: “so much has been destroyed, so many beautiful images, pictures, statues. I think it’s very sad. In fact, I find it quite blasphemous.”
“‘Thou shalt have no graven images’,” said Melanchthon in his deep voice. “All these statues and pictures of saints are little better than idolatry. And don’t forget, many of the so-called saints never even existed. Some of them were pagan gods that the Church of Rome simply turned into saints so that heathens would feel more at home with Christianity. We want to return to the simplicity of the Christian movement at its very roots; a plain table and a cross, the Word of God read out from the Holy Book, in the vernacular; thorough instruction of the young in the catechism and the Scriptures; clear doctrine from our pastors.”
“Quite right,” said Herr Holzschuher. “Out with all the flummery. Never mind all the money Rome has extorted from the gullible folk. That corrupt prince of the church has done nothing but build monuments to his own glory with the pennies of the poor. In Nürnberg, the general view is that we can worship God best through work, in the fields and mills, in caring for the deserving poor. Mysteries and fantasy, old rituals and magic, they’ve have had their day.”
I watched the nun as the two men exchanged their roughly similar opinions. She sat still, her hands in her lap, with the faintest smile on her lips. I wondered what she felt about it all; she still had to learn (as I had when I first escaped) that men t
end to ignore the opinions of women, especially when it comes to theological debates. I admired the merchant’s wife; she was not afraid to have her say.
“But so much that is precious to the common people is being swept away. The festivals and holidays mean a lot to them, lighten their burden, give them respite from their labours.” “Respite you call it, dear wife? Far too many holidays, that’s one of the reasons so little work gets done. The people expect to celebrate every saint’s day, any excuse for a party, almost once a week some sort of a feast, I despair sometimes, at the idleness of our workers in the fur industry. How can you run a business like ours if the workers are constantly downing tools; how can the harvest be brought in, or fealty be paid, if the peasants are spending so much time and energy preparing for a feast or enjoying a feast or recovering from a feast?”
The men laughed at this, and Philip asked the visitors if they would like some form of refreshment. He does this sometimes, coming over to the Cranach House and entertaining guests; I think he spends more time here or at the Black Cloister than in his own house. We all declined the offer.
Frau Holzschuher continued:
“On our journey here from Carlsbad the coach was held up by a gang of angry young men with pitchforks and poles, but the coachman managed to see them off with his matchlock. But further on, between Leipzig and Torgau, we came across a group of elderly peasant women, on their knees at a crossroads; we told the coachman to stop and Jakob asked them what the trouble was. They got to their feet and told us that the shrine where they had always stopped at each morning on their way to the fields had been smashed and desecrated. We saw it, the shattered remnants of our Blessed Lady, in a heap on the road, the wooden shelter in splinters.
“Well, you know, the simple people need to understand,” said Melanchthon, “that this worship of wood and plaster is misguided – Truth lies in the Scripture – ‘sola scriptura’, unmediated by the heresies and obfuscation of the priests. If the common people are confused and have doubts, their pastor will clarify it. Strewing flowers in the streets, bringing offerings to shrines, burning incense or carrying statues around the town, all these things have nothing to do with the true God.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Frau Biber, quietly.
“Because, good lady, I have read and studied the Scriptures and discussed these matters with other learned men who understand such things. Where in Scripture will you find references to processions and holy relics and shrines? It is enough to lead godly lives, as Herr Holzschuher says, to live in communion with one another and to celebrate the Lord’s Supper every Sunday. Nowhere do you see it written that we must build vast churches, appoint bishops and deacons and cardinals and monks and nuns and all the pomp and panoply of the Roman Church.”
“Certainly there are abuses but these can be remedied. Are we in danger, when trying to find a new way, of sweeping too much out, of obliterating the essence of spirituality from the simple people?” Frau Biber looked across at Philip with her clear grey eyes, a steady, bold stare, the stare of a woman who has been in authority over others.
Herr Holzschuher twisted round in his chair to face the woman in grey: “Excuse me, ma’am, with the greatest respect for your calling, I have to disagree. We need, to use a womanly metaphor, to sweep the room clean, clear out the clutter in the cupboard, start afresh. Pomp, ritual, mystery, keeping the poor in ignorance and superstition, all this has grown out of all proportion since the Church in Rome became so overblown with its temporal powers. A clean sweep is what we need.”
“But are we sweeping the room with love or with anger? I perceive a lot of anger in your Movement. Where does that lead us? Our Lord asks us to be forgiving, to love our enemies as ourselves. Women and children are fleeing their homes, sleeping rough on the roadside; young men leaving home to fight, housemaids are squabbling at the village wells. It seems as if civilisation is breaking down. We see brawls on the streets, hijacks on the country roads, women afraid to venture out alone. Is this what it takes to reform the church? Anarchy, in the name of Christ?”
“Not anarchy, but truth,” said Herr Holzschuher. “To see the truth the people must change; change is always painful; but each man must be true to his own conscience. The Pope has no right to look into men’s souls, nor to tell us what to think or where to enquire. The Church in Rome fears progress and hates new ideas. And why should we in Saxony be told how to worship by people living in Rome?”
“But if we had no Pope how would disputes be settled? Would not the whole of Christendom be like a fleet of little boats, all sailing towards rocks?”
“The Pope does not settle disagreements,” said Philip. “He does not listen to argument or act as judge between two parties. Remember how he and his Cardinals reacted to Doctor Luther’s criticisms; they summoned him before a court and then had him excommunicated. It was only thanks to the intervention of The Elector Frederick, and God’s protecting hand, that he was not sentenced to death by burning.”
“Yes, the Pope is a sinner too, as we all are,” continued Fräulein Biber. “Possibly he is fallible. But in the end these matters over which we disagree are trivial, superficial, compared to the love of God and to the salvation purchased for us by Jesus on the Cross. Remember our Lord’s words: unless we are as little children, we shall not enter the Kingdom.”
“I agree with the Fräulein,” said Frau Holzschuher. “All this intellectual excitement and ferment, this questioning of ancient traditions and customs – it’s the men, being rebellious – they should listen to the women.” (Thigh slapping laughter from the men at this suggestion.) “Oh, you can laugh. If women were given a chance, we would find a way of reforming and modernising without sweeping all the old traditions away.”
I made a small grunt of assent at this and she turned to me:
“Tomorrow, for instance, Fräulein von Bora, what’s happening tomorrow for Martinmas, here in Wittenberg? Is there to be a procession?”
“Yes, there is. It’s all arranged, with a donkey, and the usual sweet biscuits.”
This is an ancient custom, much loved by the people: one small boy is chosen to ride on a donkey, followed by all the other children holding candles and singing hymns, re-enacting the story of Saint Martin giving half his cloak to a beggar.
“Pastor Bugenhagen doesn’t want to disappoint the children.”
“I’m glad to hear that. To my mind, the reformers need a bit more humility, more consideration of the old people who love these traditions, and want to hand them down to their children and grandchildren; women in particular rely on rituals, and believe in the powers of certain objects and places; and why shouldn’t they believe in miracles? Miracles happened in the Bible, why shouldn’t they happen now? The Good Lord knows, we need more than a miracle to bring back some sort of order and peace to this world.”
“You have said quite enough now, Wife.”
“Forgive me, Herr Holzschuher, but I have to agree with your good wife; women do have wisdom and understand more than you might think. Apart from that I would remind you about all the good work the Mother Church has done, much of that work undertaken by women: convents and abbeys take in the poor and hungry, if you like they tear their cloaks in half for the less fortunate; they educate peasant children and look after the sick in their hospices. Where will the poor go now?
“Not only that, the convents have kept alive higher learning, reading and writing; and they pray; we should not underestimate the power of prayer, and the good it spreads throughout the world. But now the monastic houses are being gradually disbanded. Where will the traveller find shelter, the hungry find soup, the sick and dying some care and dignity? Who will pray for the world in her hour of need? And what is to replace them?”
A brief silence followed the ex-nun’s speech. I began to think that this lady must have been a high-ranking nun, an Abbess, perhaps, or a Mother Superior?
“It’s true,” said Philip after a pause. “You’re quite right, the monastic house
s have always contributed a great deal – in fact as you all know, Dr Luther was himself an Augustinian monk – and Katharina here was a Cistercian nun at Nimbschen. I do agree with you, provision will have to be made to fill that gap. And it is being done already. Town councils are raising taxes so that they can build poor houses, schools, hostels. Here in Wittenberg, for instance, the old Franciscan Friary is being converted into a poor house at the Town’s expense. And we’re building two new schools, one for boys and one for girls, on the site of the old candle factory. Some of the candle women will get work there. Our children will benefit, they’ll learn to read and write and grow up knowing their catechism. And as for higher learning, well, Wittenberg University is a good example: new universities are the best place for learning now. And of course the copying of books by hand, one of those houses’ main sources of income, is likely to become redundant before too long.”
“Yes, and another thing,” said Herr Holzschuher, “forgive me for saying so, present company excluded I’m sure, but some monks and nuns have been living in luxury and idleness, on the donations of the rich. Do you recall those monks last year in Nürnberg, Hildegard, when they were chased out of their monastery and driven through the streets? The people hated them; they harnessed six monks up to a wagon like oxen and whipped them and made them pull it through the streets, the crowd were falling over each other, for laughing. They were fat and unfit, they went quite red in the face at the effort. The council broke it up in the end, because one of them fell down with a heart attack – it was getting a bit ugly – and in the end, most of the monks made their escape; I’ll bet they’re living on a fat pension even now. Frankly, their order was idle and corrupt, most of us thought they got no more than they deserved.”
