Katharina Luther

by Anne Boileau

  “So did you decide straight away, to ask to become a novice at the Monastery?”

  “No, it wasn’t that easy. I walked back to my room, lay flat on my bed and tried to sleep. My mind was in turmoil and my stomach churning, my head throbbing. So I got up, went out again, wandered around the town, stumbled into a hostelry and ordered a large beer. I don’t know how long I sat there, in the corner of the dark room, or how many beers I put away. I do know that I found myself being helped back to my lodgings late at night by two colleagues; they rang the bell, and my landlady opened the door to us, whereupon I was sick at her feet!

  “‘Dear oh dear, Mr Luther, what shall we do with you? Let’s get you to bed and I’ll bring you some gruel to settle the stomach.’

  “I lay in my bed and the world was spinning round, with me at its epicentre. ‘Oh God, give me a sign. Oh Father, oh Mother, let me go; do not demand so much of me. Oh God, do not ask so much of me. Oh why can’t you all just leave me alone?’ I wept like a child, then sank into a heavy sleep, almost a coma; shortly before waking I had this vivid dream about Saint Anne. We were up on the hill where Max died, and she was walking towards me, her hand held out to me. She was a fine, mature woman, our Lord’s grandmother. Then she spoke to me: ‘Martin. The storm is in your own heart. Remember, the still small voice of calm.’ That is all she said. Then she smiled at me, turned and walked away down the hill.

  “I had a blinding hangover but I knew what I must do. Gingerly I made my way to the University. I asked to see my Professor and told him about my promise to Saint Anne and my decision to abandon Law and apply to enter the cloister. He accepted my resignation from the School of Law with regret but understanding. My next, much harder task, was to tell my parents of my change of career.

  “As you can imagine, my father was furious, my mother disappointed, my siblings baffled. In obeying the will of God I set myself at odds with my parents, with my whole family. My father had had such high hopes for me, invested so much money in my schooling, and here I was, planning to lay aside all earthly ambition, shave my head, wear a cowl, a hairshirt and rope sandals and renounce the world. That was when we became estranged.”

  We had finished shelling the broad beans. We were now just sitting with a large bowl full of pale green beans on the table between us, and a large heap of soft pods at our feet. I was moved by his story, and touched that he had told it to me. I said nothing and we sat together in silence, staring at the beans.

  Then Martin got up from the table and went into the kitchen; he came back clasping two pewter mugs brimming with frothy beer.

  “So that was the story of how I renounced law and became a monk. All because of a thunderstorm and my promise to Saint Anne!”

  “Well, maybe that was exactly what God wanted you to do. If you hadn’t given up law and become a monk you wouldn’t ever have come to such a deep understanding of the Scriptures. It all turned out for the best, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, you’re right. Like Isaiah in the temple, when God said ‘who shall I send and who will go for me?’ and Isaiah said: ‘Here am I. Send me.’”

  He kissed me, and walked back into the house. He looked tired. As I sorted the beans for drying or pickling, I thought about the thunderstorm and the death of his friend Max; Martin could have been struck dead too. I felt sure that Saint Anne had interceded on his behalf. Because of the storm, he became a monk, not a lawyer. Which in turn meant he immersed himself in Theology and the Bible, and that led him to set in motion the huge upheavals in the Church, the reforms. Which in turn led him to write so many wise words about religion, and to translate the word of God for the common people. My husband was simply fulfilling his allotted task on this earth, as planned by God our Father.

  Three weeks passed. It was harvest time, so all hands were busy in the fields. Martin disappeared to his study most mornings, but after lunch and a rest we made time to be together, either in the garden, or riding out to see how the mowers and reapers were doing. Dorothea returned from her break and helped me in the kitchen with gathering and preserving fruit.

  Then a letter arrived from Lippendorf. I was overjoyed, but on breaking the seal I saw with a stab of disappointment that it was not my Father’s hand. It was a letter from my Stepmother.

  Lippendorf, July 12th 1525

  Dear Katharina,

  Your letter to your father arrived by messenger boy from Leipzig – he had it from a bookbinder there.

  I urged your father to write to you himself but he is not very well. A languor has taken hold of him. He spends much of his time in the study, trying to reconcile the books, or out in the stable tending his old horse (which should by now have gone to the knackers), or riding slowly around the park; he scarcely ever leaves the estate except occasionally in my company. Why is he suffering like this? It could be our straitened circumstances, though with thrift and hard work we get by well enough. It could be due to the turbulent times we live in, and fear of another attack on our home. Our physician suspects it is a more deep-rooted disease for which he can suggest no remedy beyond the usual bleeding. Frankly I attribute it to his confused faith; I try to persuade him to unburden his soul to our priest but he is unwilling; like so many unfortunate souls now, he worries about God, Our Lady, Christ Jesus; whether to go to confession or not, whether to observe a saint’s day or not. I try to persuade him simply to observe the old customs and not be swayed by fashion or changing views, but he remains confused.

  In this letter I propose to set down for you, now that you are a married woman, many unsaid things. I want to explain as best I can the reasons why, apart from your Father’s despair, we could not possibly have attended your wedding in June. It is hard for me to say this, especially as you and I have had so little contact over the years; I know we have met only seldom since you left home for the convent. I feel confident that now, in your maturity, you do not question the wisdom of our sending you there. You were not an easy child and your father was foolish about you; the best course was to allow you to attend the convent school. Believe me, it was a sacrifice for all of us to send you to Marienthron. And I do not mean only the dowry. By sending you away we lost a useful pair of hands. As I say, the decision to send you there was purely for your own good. You received an outstanding education for a girl of your class; and as things turned out you were much safer within those walls than we have been for the last few years here at Lippendorf.

  When your letter arrived out of the blue announcing (no question, incidentally, of asking your Father’s permission) your betrothal to Dr Martin Luther, we were quite amazed. Of course we already knew of your escape from Marienthron (a scandal we both prefer to forget) and your close involvement with the Protestants at Wittenberg – but to hear that you were so completely in the pocket of all those people took us aback, to put it mildly. I have to say, Katharina, by marrying Dr Luther you have placed yourself at the very centre, in the very eye of the storm, of what we, your parents, deplore and abjure.

  Dr Luther should examine his soul and wring his hands in penitence. He has set ravening wolves loose in the sheepfold. He has broken down the hurdles of the fold which kept them safe and the flock are wandering loose and unshepherded; indeed, some of those sheep have turned into wolves themselves. Allow me, if you will, to spell out some of the horrors which have unfolded before our eyes as a direct result of your rebellious monk’s incitements.

  Firstly, on the 15th August, Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin two years ago, a once sacred and beautiful ritual was turned into a desecration. It happened in our village church, which has taken on the new form of worship. As you well know, for longer than anyone can remember, the common folk have celebrated the Assumption by gathering flowers and herbs, and strewing them all around the church, especially at the feet of the statue of Our Lady. During the service they are blessed and then taken away to be strewn in barns, stalls, fields and meadows. They are believed to be a potent protection against illness in humans and animals, and a precaution
against bad weather. Well, last year, when all the women and children had gathered flowers from the roadsides and meadows and the church was sweet with their fragrance, the pastor with his new ideas said “This is ignorant superstition! Those flowers have no magic properties, they’re nothing but common weeds. Just take them out into the street after the service and destroy them.” So the flowers were swept up by youths looking for a fight, and chucked onto the street; there they were trodden and danced upon with profane singing and ugly rhymes, thrown beneath the wheels of carts and into the filthy gutters. I saw the small children who had picked them and lovingly laid them around the church crying at this senseless destruction.

  The following August, the pastor decided to forbid the bringing of any flowers into the church, to avoid a similar fracas. Women and children, arriving at the church with their arms full of flowers were told to leave them in the porch and not to decorate the church. You can imagine the disappointment this caused.

  In another village, not far from here, worse things have happened. Statues of Mary and the Saints were torn down from their plinths, taken outside and smashed. The Virgin’s head was sawn off, and Joseph was broken up and defiled, even the blessed infant Jesus smashed, then they were all heaped up into a pyre and burned. Other atrocities took place, which I will not shock you with.

  Thirdly, just after Epiphany, a horde of angry peasants attacked our house. They forced open the park gates, pushed past old Herr and Frau Blankenagel, and marched up the drive waving pitchforks and pikes. The stable boy warned us and we managed to raise the drawbridge just in time so that they were unable to break into the house. But they hurled stones across the moat, breaking some windows, and yelled obscenities. One of them shot an incendiary arrow onto the roof but thank the Lord it began to rain just at that moment, so the fire never took hold. They slunk off home, gesticulating and cursing. Since then we have kept the drawbridge well-greased and oiled, and closed most of the time.

  Your husband has made a dreadful mistake inciting the peasants to this insurgency. Hans says it’s hardly to be wondered at. They are confused. They hear the gospel story in their own tongue, which seems to question the established social order. This makes them envious and greedy. At the same time they are told the saints they learnt to venerate are worthless, the statues ‘graven images’, their old customs and beliefs superstitious. Worst of all, Our Lady has been dethroned. Is it any wonder the people are in turmoil and confusion? I should say that most of the troublemakers are the younger ones; the older people like Cook and poor old Magdalena Blankenagel just want things to stay the same, they don’t want to make trouble. But the young are insolent, unruly, uncouth. They seem to have lost the fear of God’s wrath and have no respect for their elders and betters. Children are learning to read as well, which gives them ideas above their station.

  I have written enough now. I am glad you liked the little year book. It belonged, so I understand, to your maternal grandmother. I hope it might remind you of more peaceful, devout times, when people knew where they stood in this world and how they might prepare themselves for the next.

  Your affectionate Stepmother,

  Margarethe

  So they do not approve of the reforms. Or at least Stepmother does not, and Father, by the sound of it, isn’t very sure about anything. Such unrest, all because of religion! Adherents of Rome moving south, protestants moving north, in wagons, carts, on foot, in boats. Intolerance, uncertainty, distrust. The Wittenberg Council have sent out a decree forbidding housemaids or any servants from discussing religion at the wells and pumps or any public place; it’s a sensible law because all too often such talk leads to scuffles and fights.

  But I am sorry they think so ill of Martin. Wouldn’t they change their minds if they met him? He’s a good man. His work is changing the world for the better. He has exposed the rottenness within the Church of Rome. He has brought light into the darkness, and swept away fear and ignorance; he has shown sinners that Jesus loves them and that God the Father is not angry and vindictive, but loving and generous.

  Chapter 18

  Tante Lena’s Letter

  Viel tun und wohl tun schickt sich nicht zusammen.

  Doing a lot and doing good are not necessarily compatible..

  We were sitting alone, enjoying the privacy of a Sunday evening. Sundays after church are a day of rest for us all: the servants, the animals, the students and my husband; everyone knows to leave the doctor and me in peace at this time. This particular November day we were both dog-tired; added to that, I was feeling nauseous because of my pregnancy. My first attack of morning sickness took me quite by surprise. I was in the brewhouse, and the smell of fermenting hops, usually a delicious, sweet aroma, was rich and overpowering. I brought my breakfast up all over the floor in one great gush. I was hastily trying to mop it up, not wanting Agnes to see, when the world about me went dark and I fainted. Agnes found me prostrate on the cold tiles; she helped me to my feet, and led me into the kitchen. The next morning I was sick again, this time as soon as I got out of bed. Dorothea nodded wisely at me. “You’re in the family way, ma’am, no doubt about it.”

  “She may be right, dear wife, but let’s not rely on her opinion. I’ll send for Frau Wischnau, she’s the best midwife in town, and she’ll know for sure whether you are indeed with child.”

  The midwife arrived within the hour. We climbed up to my bedroom together and she examined me. She looked in my mouth and my eyes, told me to lie on the bed and looked at me down there; she pressed my abdomen, felt my breasts and nipples and listened to my chest through a cow’s horn ear trumpet; she took my pulse and smelt my breath and fingered the texture of my hair.

  “You can get dressed now, good lady.” She turned her back on me, packing away her instruments in her leather bag. Then she turned round to look at me with satisfaction as I sat on my bed, tying up my bodice, and said:

  “Yes, Frau Doctor. You are with child, I would guess in your third week. The nausea is quite normal and will go on for ten weeks. I’ll give you an infusion to settle the stomach, peppermint for the morning and motherwort at night. I’ll pop by and see you once a week until your condition has settled down. After that once a fortnight will be ample.”

  Together we consulted the calendar which she keeps in her bag and she worked out when the birth was likely to be. Early June. It was hard to imagine midsummer, when we were now descending into winter with the nights drawing in and the coldest weather still before us.

  The prospect of motherhood filled me with a mixture of trepidation and joy. But wasn’t that one of the main reasons why my sisters and I had escaped from Nimbschen? Martin was delighted, he hugged me like a great big bear and grinned from ear to ear. I know that if it should please God to give us a healthy child, he will be a most devoted and caring father.

  I welcomed the shortening days, the retreat into winter. How busy we have been, filling up the larder with provender! It all falls on me, as mistress of this house, to make sure we have enough food to see us through the winter. At Nimbschen it was the senior nuns who saw to it, and at the Cranachs it was Barbara. So my first autumn in charge of a household I was doubly anxious to do it well. The surplus pigs and billy-goats had been slaughtered, the meat soaking in brine, or already cured and smoked.

  In the summer we had picked soft fruits and preserved them or put them into the rum pot for Christmas. We made cider, apple cheese and dried apple rings and made strap out of pears, medlars and quince. The larder was stocked with pungent cheeses. Two sides of bacon hung from hooks, wrapped in muslin, alongside cervelat sausage, hams and liverwurst. We filled a barrel with sauerkraut and jars of gherkins in dill vinegar stand in rows on the cool stone shelves. Agnes and her little brothers went out mushrooming in September and we dried and packed up a bushel of them, always such a welcome addition to winter stews.

  Outside, the barn loft is packed to the eaves with sweet hay, and more haystacks stand in the yard. In the cellar the firkins of wheat, b
arley, oats and rye are stacked up on pallets to keep dry. With the blacksmith’s wife’s help we collected, separated and potted ninety pounds of honey. In short, despite the unrest and universal food shortages, Dorothea, Agnes and I have provided this household, with so many hungry young men to feed, for the winter and spring ahead.

  Every woman in charge of a household welcomes the long nights with a sigh of relief, if – and I must emphasise if – the putting by has gone well. Supposing it has not gone well, for whatever reason, if the larders are only poorly stocked, then her heart will be cold with dread, thinking, how soon should we begin rationing, how soon before our stores run down? As it is, this year I think we may well have a surplus to sell or give to the poor when necessary.

  At any rate, we can feel free to sit with our feet up by the fire in the parlour, a candle burning; we can talk or read aloud, or simply snooze.

  I am fiercely jealous of our Sundays. All the rest of the week Martin is so busy. If he’s not preparing or delivering a lecture at the University or tutoring his students, then he’ll be writing a sermon or preaching in church. As Vicar General of the diocese he has to chair meetings about schools and churches in the rural parishes. Or he is closeted in his study in the tower, either on his own, writing essays or letters, or in discussion with his colleagues on matters of faith and doctrine. Our weeks run to a timetable, so I usually know where he is, and with whom. In the vacations he has more free time and this is when he rides out to the villages to see how the country pastors are getting on.