The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘Fear not, it is really me, solid in flesh and spirit. For the last four years I have been living in Amsterdam, but I had not the courage to face you until now.’

  ‘Pray why?’

  ‘I have always been aware that your acceptance of my sex is predicated upon your observation that I am a freak of nature: a man’s intellect trapped within the form of a woman.’

  ‘Indeed, I still hold the opinion that women have not by nature equal rights with men, and that thus it cannot be that both sexes should rule alike, much less that men should be ruled by women.’

  The other men in the room break into laughter, amused by the absurdity of such a notion. Only Detlef remains soberfaced.

  Glancing at him, Spinoza smiles indulgently before continuing. ‘Therefore it follows that women should be excluded from government because of their natural weakness.’

  Unable to control himself, Detlef interrupts.

  ‘With all respect, my wife has all the qualities I would look for in a leader although she has no desire to lead.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  Spinoza glances from Detlef back to Ruth, who is defiant despite her burning cheeks.

  ‘I believe you know my husband, Detlef von Tennen?’

  ‘Naturally, his reputation as a preacher and theologian precedes him, but I see now he has other recommendations.’

  ‘He has. For you see, my most valued mentor, I took your notion to heart and I too regarded myself as an aberration and excluded all possibility of being loved and accepted by a man for my true nature. But as you now observe, Benedict, I believe we may both have been wrong.’

  The room falls silent as all eyes turn to the philosopher. For a moment a cloud of irritation crosses Spinoza’s benign features, then suddenly his face breaks into an expression of amused perplexity as he extends his hand to Detlef.

  ‘I congratulate you on your enlightenment, but you must forgive me if I can only meet you halfway. Women should never be in government, by this I stand.’

  ‘Halfway is at least some of the way. In this we can agree to differ. I am honoured just to be in the presence of such eminent intellects.’

  Detlef’s reply is firm and not in the least obsequious, Ruth observes. Her husband and she are of one mind, bound by one spirit, she thinks with renewed respect for his courage, although it is this outspoken bravery that makes her nervous for his safety.

  Detlef’s gaze remains upon the philosopher. If Spinoza’s observations about the differences between man and woman are limited, so be it, he thinks. He still has a true comprehension of where man sits in the monumental scale of the universe, and he lives his philosophy. There is no compromise between his beliefs and his actions. His perception makes everything divine. He knows that all that is around him is God. This I respect, he thinks. Inspired, Detlef cannot help but feel immense gratitude towards the woman whose devotion has made the encounter with this luminary possible.

  The philosopher takes his place at the head of the table. There is a flurry of chair-scraping and muffled coughs as the other men follow suit. Ruth, beside Detlef again, is reminded of an eccentric Last Supper with the philosopher as a bizarre Christ figure surrounded by his silent yet totally attentive disciples. Who would be Judas? Any man present could notify the ecclesiastical authorities of any philosophising which might be deemed blasphemous. And these are particularly dangerous times. She shudders, remembering the fate of Adriaan Koerbagh, who, if he were alive, would be sitting amongst them.

  The silence thickens as Spinoza very deliberately packs a clay pipe then places a large bound manuscript on the table before him. Only after balancing a wire-rimmed pair of lenses on his nose does he begin to speak.

  ‘Firstly I wish to thank all those present. In this current climate it is no mean feat to speak out even in the company of trusted and like minds. In many ways it is precisely this that has propelled me to extend my writings to my latest treatise, Tractatus theologico-politicus. For within it is illustrated the belief that freedom to philosophise can not only be granted without injury to piety and the peace of the commonwealth, but that the peace of the commonwealth and piety are endangered by the suppression of this very freedom. I have also set out to prove that faith is something separate from philosophy, however there is room for both to coexist in a truly democratic Republic. In fact, I believe this to be a necessity within a Republic.

  ‘These are unpredictable times. There are friends who once sat with us who have already been martyred. I would like to salute the imprisoned, the exiled and those individuals who, despite great personal danger to themselves, have risen above their traditional upbringings to find faith and love through belief born out of the experience of life itself. For to do so is to truly realise the celestial within us,’ the philosopher concludes, looking directly at Detlef and Ruth.

  The coach rolls to a halt outside the narrow red-brick house. The coachman, glancing at the number painted above the brass knocker, snorts derisively and pulls up the horses. What his elegant German passenger wants in such a humble abode one can only imagine; whatever it is it is bound to be sinful, the coachman thinks, winding the reins around the wooden rail of the carriage and wondering at the strangeness of the times in this uncertain Holland.

  With a flourish he opens the door. His passenger stares in dismay at the surrounds, a perfumed handkerchief pressed to his patrician nose. Thanking the coachman in bad Dutch, he alights, trying carefully not to soil his kid boots in a gutter awash with mud and swill.

  The count gazes up at his brother’s house, humiliated that a von Tennen could demean himself thus. There is only one saving grace, he thinks: a beggar is cheaper to buy off than a duke.

  As he steps across the cobbled pavement he notices that the front of the house at least is immaculately kept, with a pot holding a rose bush on either side of the oak door. Through the large window on the ground floor he can see the bowed head of his brother illuminated by the dull golden light of a lamp. On Detlef’s lap sits a child, a small blond-haired boy who immediately reminds the count of his brother at the same age.

  I cannot afford sentimentality, Gerhard thinks, reminding himself that this child, half-Jew, is an abomination, a travesty of the von Tennen lineage. Nevertheless, as he leans on his cane, a distant recollection he thought he had long buried streams through him: Detlef aged six being presented to his father in his first military uniform. The child, fearing the old viscount’s disapproval, had stumbled over the miniature sword they had thrust into his sash, then wept at the angry shouts of his father. Gerhard, a youth of eighteen, had done nothing to protect the young Detlef from the irrational fury of the viscount; anger Gerhard had later understood as the embittered frustration of an aristocrat forced to watch his land being carved away section by section.

  There was a constant unspoken battle between their mother and her husband. Gerhard had watched the arranged marriage slowly calcify, any façade of happiness disappearing when the old viscount took to keeping a mistress openly in Bonn while his wife retreated into the sanctuary of religion. The viscount, hardened by battle and politics, could not stand the piousness of his Bavarian wife and so when Detlef fell increasingly under his mother’s influence, his father penalised him for it, finding the young boy’s temperament and physical resemblance to Katrina von Tennen insufferable. As the older brother I was culpable, I should have protected Detlef more, the count thinks regretfully. Tucking his cane beneath his arm he marches up the four stone steps and raps sharply on the door.

  Ruth looks up from her sewing but Detlef is already on his feet. ‘Esther, kindly answer the door,’ he instructs the maid, determined not to open it himself. The maid puts down her sewing and hurries out.

  ‘Girl, there is no need to stand on ceremony. Let me in, it would be unsafe to loiter on this step any longer,’ the count commands in German.

  The Dutch maid, not understanding a word, steps aside. Behind her the count hears Detlef’s distinctive laugh.

  ‘Gerhard
, what do you fear? The pickpockets or the whores?’

  ‘Both, you scoundrel.’

  Stepping out of the shadows Detlef welcomes his brother. Spontaneously the two men embrace with genuine affection. Once released, the count totters for a second, surprised at the passion of the reconciliation. He had forgotten how much he actually misses his brother.

  Handing his cape and cane to the maid, Count von Tennen peers into the dimly lit entrance hall which also doubles as the living room. Behind Detlef he can barely make out Ruth standing stiffly, the child in her arms. The count, sensing her disapproval, bows formally. ‘Fraulein.’

  ‘Frau Tennen. We are both officially Protestants and married now.’

  ‘So I have heard. Detlef, you should have notified me, I would have sent gifts.’

  ‘We managed,’ Ruth replies, acutely conscious of the circumstances of their last meeting, two lifetimes ago at Das Grüntal when she was called to minister to the young Prince Ferdinand.

  His brother has grown old, Detlef observes, there is a sadness about his features, a new humanity…or is he merely imagining such things?

  ‘Esther, wine for the count, he needs fortification after such a long journey. I trust that the tavern I recommended suffices?’

  ‘It is very civilised. It is true what they say about the Netherlands, they really are the apex of the New World. Today I saw fruit and spices I have never seen before. For example, a fruit that resembles a love apple yet is hard on the outside, while inside are many sweet red seeds like gemstones. They tell me it is the fruit that Persephone ate in the underworld, to the delight of her husband Hades.’

  ‘A pomegranate, that is the name for this fruit,’ Ruth interjects sharply, still distrusting the count’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I see you are as learned as ever, sister-in-law.’

  The count turns back to Detlef. ‘You look well, brother, this new life suits you.’

  ‘It suits every man to be living honestly and within his own moral skin. But you, sir, there is a sadness I have not seen before…’

  ‘I am alone, Detlef. Two winters ago I lost my dear companion, Herr Wolf. My new solitude has left me with little appetite for life or many of the blood sports I did so enjoy.’

  ‘There is little that stirs the soul in comparison with the machinations of the court.’

  ‘I thought you had abandoned the political life for the elusive pleasure of being a zealot?’

  ‘Zealot? No, I am a Remonstrant.’

  ‘One of those new-fangled Calvinists,’ the count remarks wryly.

  ‘I shall resist the temptation to convert you, Gerhard. I fear it would be a waste of a good sermon.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  ‘I am merely the servant of my congregation. But tell me, how is our good cousin Maximilian Heinrich?’ Detlef asks, smiling.

  ‘Rounded and perhaps a touch more maudlin. Little has changed in Cologne, although we now entertain a good Dutch garrison. As you know, our fair city will always whore herself for the right price. Speaking of which, there is one piece of news that might be of interest: the good lady Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep is recently a widow, the prettiest and richest in the city. If I remember, you were confessor to the family for many years.’

  Detlef glances at Ruth, who is twisting a string of seed pearls that hangs low on her dress.

  ‘Gerhard, you must understand that here in Amsterdam we are the Tennens, a plain German immigrant family. Our lives before exist in a world we no longer acknowledge or discuss.’

  ‘I am sad to hear that, Detlef. Cologne misses you. There were many who respected you, both aristocrat and burger. Many still do. But enough of Cologne, let me see my nephew.’

  Detlef kneels and pushes Jacob, who has been hiding behind a chair, towards his uncle. The boy shyly stands before the count, clutching a toy rabbit.

  ‘Jacob, bow to your uncle.’

  The four year old draws his heels together and bows formally, a gesture which surprises the count. So the Jewchild has some manners, even if they are the mimicked actions of an intelligent monkey, he observes, privately appalled at his brother’s obvious love for the illegitimate child. Adopting a fake expression of affection he glances at the boy.

  ‘He is delightful, but sister-in-law, you must allow me to take him to a good Dutch tailor and have him made up some satin breeches and a matching cape.’

  ‘Jacob is not lacking in clothes and has no need of charity.’

  ‘I should think not. It is just that I have a fancy to commission a portrait of the child and myself. A painter from Delft has been recommended, Pieter de Hooch. I hear he is fair and able to give a reasonable likeness—with your permission of course.’

  Detlef looks at Jacob who smiles innocently back at him. The idea that his son might be accepted as part of the von Tennen family fills him with a furtive pleasure. Pensive, he looks across at Ruth but is interrupted by Jacob pulling at his sleeve.

  ‘Papa, I would like that.’

  Relieved that the decision has been made for him, Detlef immediately claps his hands in celebration.

  ‘Excellent. And now we shall eat the good German food Esther and Ruth have prepared for us.’

  ‘Thank God, for after a single day I have already tired of herring!’

  The tailor measures the child’s leg with a piece of string then holds it against a yardstick. Stiflingly hot with the damp air of Amsterdam, the atelier is a small cave filled with bolts of silk, wool, cotton from India and sumptuous pieces of embroidery stretched out on small wooden frames. In the centre of the room Jacob stands perfectly still, holding out his arms. Esther, the maid, idly fingers a tassel of silk ribbon.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ the tailor, a Jew from Lisbon, says to the mother, secretly wondering about her black hair and dark eyes. The exotic-looking woman and the elderly aristocrat make a strange couple. The German, conspicuously moneyed, reclining in the elegant French chair the tailor always presents for his wealthy clients, is obviously a Christian gentleman. But the woman…? Who cares, the tailor reminds himself, as long as their money is good.

  ‘Naturally he is a good boy, he has noble blood,’ replies the count in an authoritative tone, sensing the tailor’s curiosity. Of course it takes one to sniff out another, the aristocrat thinks to himself. Still, he will not have to suffer the indignity much longer.

  He points to a bolt of cloth with his walking cane. ‘The breeches should be in velvet, dark blue of the highest quality to match my own, with an embroidered jerkin ribboned at the waist in the French style,’ he orders curtly.

  ‘Uncle, am I to have new boots also?’

  ‘You are to have pumps that are buttoned at the side and you shall sit on my right, a hunting dog at your feet.’

  ‘A dog! Esther! Mama! I’m to have a dog!’

  ‘Only for the painting, Jacob.’

  Ruth, watching Jacob’s excitement, is anxious that he might be corrupted by his uncle’s taste for luxury. She looks at the count, his elegant figure gazing down at the boy. Is it possible that approaching old age and the desire for family have tempered the man? He has been nothing but coolly courteous towards Ruth since his arrival. And what of his distress at his brother’s poverty? Is the offer of a stipend out of genuine concern or an attempt to control? Ruth cannot tell. He is either a master of strategy or truly hungry for family. Is Detlef right to refuse? She marvels at his resolve but, more realistically, knows they could use the money. She is growing weary of midwifery and secretly fears the work will make her old before her time. Detlef’s stern response floats back into her mind. ‘Allow him to spend his money on the child, but not on us. To do so would mean becoming indebted and I will not be beholden to an institution with which I have an ethical disagreement.’

  The moral high ground is not always the most practical position, Ruth finds herself thinking, then, remembering the passions of her youth, wonders what she has become. She is pulled back into the room as the tailor drops his tape and reaches for a
bolt of cloth.

  ‘Will the dog eat Punti?’ Jacob asks, holding up his toy rabbit.

  Swallowing his distaste, the count feigns a laugh and pulls the child onto his lap. ‘Only if you want him to. Do you want him to tear him up into little pieces?’

  Jacob gives his uncle a solemn stare then answers with great seriousness, ‘No, I don’t.’

  The count laughs. ‘Then he shan’t. I give you the word of a gentleman.’

  A bell rings at the door and a page enters dressed in the colours of his master’s house. He approaches Ruth. ‘Are you Mevrouw Tennen, the midwife?’

  ‘Is Mevrouw van Voorten in labour?’

  ‘For a good three hours she has been screaming for you,’ the page replies dramatically.

  Smiling at his anxiety, Ruth places a hand on his arm. ‘When women labour they scream, but there is no need to be afraid, she is a sturdy woman.’

  ‘Madame, my mistress needs you now.’

  She glances at Gerhard and Esther and hesitates, reluctant to leave. The count, seemingly reading her distress, puts a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Fear not, the child will be safe with me and the maid, I promise.’

  Ruth looks into his eyes and for the first time believes she sees genuine affection there. The servant tugs at her sleeve.

  ‘We must hurry.’

  She wraps her cloak around her then pulls her son close, the sweet smell of his hair enveloping her as she lifts him.

  ‘Jacob, Uncle will take you to the painter’s this afternoon and then home. You will be a good boy, won’t you, and you won’t cry for mama?’

  Jacob, swallowing, nods.

  Ruth turns to the maid. ‘Esther, make sure he wears his jacket and that he does not go hungry.’

  The maid nods, her broad face expressionless. The count puts his hand on the boy’s tiny shoulder.

  ‘I promise I shall have him safely home before sunset.’

  Jacob flings his arms around Ruth’s neck and clings to her. She kisses him then places his hand firmly into the count’s.