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A Question of Faith

Written by Anette Pedersen

Grantville, June 1633

“Could I have a word with you, Father Johannes?”

Johannes Grunwald jumped up from the table with a gasp and spun around quickly, sending several maps and notes to the floor. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anybody. It’s rather late.” He looked at the elegant young man in the doorway, and relaxed slightly. He had met Don Francisco Nasi only in passing, but, while the head of the Abrabanel financial network in Germany might not be the most reassuring person to make an unexpected appearance close to midnight, the young Jew wasn’t likely to be a personal threat either. Johannes looked down on the maps and floor plans on the table. “Please sit down, Don Francisco, I don’t suppose you have much need to know the layout of Fulda’s main buildings?”

“Not much, no. But my apology for startling you, Father Johannes. I suppose you are preparing something for the NUS team in Fulda?” Francisco Nasi closed the door and sat down at the table in the high school classroom, considering the German priest. Father Johannes had been one of the foremost painters of propaganda broadsheets for the Holy Roman Empire until the atrocities at Magdeburg had made him revolt, flee and finally—a year and a half ago—seek refuge in Grantville. He had easily been worth his stipend as a teacher, not so much for his knowledge of languages and paints, as because after two decades of painting for both clerical and secular rulers all over Germany, his knowledge of people, towns, and buildings was without equal among the new citizens in Grantville. “I was wondering, Father Johannes, if you’d heard anything from the Inquisition?”

“No. Nothing.” Johannes sat down at the table too, and fiddled with his pen. “Father Mazzare’s contacts within the Church tell of several people asking for Father Johannes the painter, but those asking are seemingly just interested in having me come to paint for them. I am told you head a vast network of all kinds of contacts, Don Francisco. Have you heard anything?”

“Oh no, nothing about you from the Inquisition,” Don Francisco smiled. “Do you worry about an abduction? Or perhaps a formal request for you?”

“I don’t think those I personally insulted at Magdeburg have enough power for either. My main value to anybody seems to be the paintings I make. I would like that, if only people wanted their beauty rather than their propaganda value.” Johannes shrugged. “Frankly, the most likely thing to happen is an attempt to make me go back to making propaganda for the Church—willingly or under threat from the Inquisition. If I refuse that, but keep a low profile, I may be excommunicated or I may just be ignored. Only if I’m seen to work against the Church—or its political interests—do I expect any serious force to be brought against me. In which case an assassination may be easier to arrange than an abduction, at least in the areas where the Americans keep order.”

“I see.” Don Francisco leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. “As I said, I’ve heard nothing about you in connection with the Inquisition. But I was wondering if you might be willing to leave Grantville. Perhaps to accept a few commissions from some of the more open-minded and politically neutral of your old patrons?”

“And?” Father Johannes too leaned back and looked straight at the polished young man across the table.

Don Francisco shrugged. “Look out for opportunities. Keep your options open, I think the Americans call it.”

Johannes kept looking. ”Please excuse my rudeness, Don Francisco, but why are you taking an interest in this? Are you asking me to report to you?”

“If you so wish. You haven’t been excommunicated, so you’re still a Catholic priest. And a man. With loyalties to whomever or whatever you are loyal to.”

“And just what, Don Francisco, are you loyal to?”

“Primarily my family and my faith. Is that so different from you?”

“No. Different family and different faith, of course, but that’s not my problem. Where do the Americans enter your loyalties?”

“The Americans? Not the NUS or CPE?”

Johannes nodded. “Ideas and ideals, not politics and compromises.”

Don Francisco raised his eyebrows and looked up at the ceiling, “What the Americans have begun may well be the best chance for prosperity and security in Europe today, for my family as well as for my faith. We realize that they are just a small town and risk drowning in the greater political picture. So I—and my family—try to aid them. Help them help themselves and thus ourselves.” He looked back again to Johannes. “You have, since your arrival here, been giving the American leaders quite a lot of help yourself, Father Johannes, with your lessons in Contemporary Social and Political Studies.”

Johannes laughed a little, “Oh yes. Everything I Know About the Present Political Situation—its Players and Powers. Still, my family and I owe the Americans a debt for helping little Johann, the son of my nephew Herr Martin Grunwald.”

“And that debt is the only reason for your help? You don’t agree with the American goals?”

Johannes shrugged, “Both yes and no. Aside from teaching and painting I’ve spent just about every spare waking moment reading the American books of history and philosophy. I think I’ve got a good idea of what they are and what they are trying to do. On the whole I’m fairly certain I approve. What still bothers me is that all these important new ideas come from people who seemingly fear neither God nor the Devil. How about you, Don Francisco? Do you fear God and do you fear the Devil?”

“I’m a Jew, Father Johannes. Our faith is different. Personally I hope God will have mercy on my human frailty, and think that the Devil—if such exists—does his work on Earth and among the living.” Don Francisco rose from his chair. “But please consider my words, Father Johannes. The American's alliance with the Swedish king has made them a power to consider. It would be well to know how this is viewed among the clerical nobility.”

“I’ll think about it.” Johannes started gathering his papers, but Don Francisco remained by the table watching him.

“You have been supplying the American leaders with all kinds of information, Father Johannes. And by now the Americans are being taken very seriously by both the Catholic Church and the secular powers. Do think—carefully.”

Grantville, August 1633

The Thuringen Gardens was filled almost to capacity in the warm and dusty afternoon, but Johannes steered his friend, Frank Erbst, to a quiet corner. Frank was a big, strong, red-haired bear of a man, with a warm smile and an ever-ready interest in the world around him. He and Johannes had grown up together on Grunwald-an-der-Saale, the estate Frank now managed for Johannes’ older brother Marcus Grunwald, professor of theology at the University in Jena. Ever since his arrival in Grantville, Johannes had been sending seeds and information about American farming to Frank. Despite Marcus’ dislike of everything connected with the Americans, Frank had—with great enthusiasm—put the new crops and ideas to use at the estate. And despite the drought, the tomatoes and long beans had been running rampant during the summer on the sunny hillsides along the Saale River. Now, just before the main harvest was about to start, Frank had come to Grantville—the best market for the new crops—to make arrangements with several traders.

With their second tankards half-drained, the two old friends were now catching up on family news.

“Have you heard from your nephew Martin recently, Johannes? He was scuttling around like a woodcock on his new crutches, when I went to Jena last spring. He also wanted me to write to him about growing the new crops. He seemed to be doing some kind of avisa.”

Johannes laughed, “It’s not an avisa, Frank. I sent Martin some copies I’d made of the Americans’ magazines, especially one in German called Simplicissimus. Martin has become the publisher of a monthly newspaper magazine—with his wife, Louisa, handling the legwork and the practical arrangements. Marcus helped with getting the permissions before he saw just what Martin and Louisa intend to publish.”

“I’ve seen such before.” Frank shrugged. “Why would Marcus object to council decisions posted on tavern walls.”

“Simplicissimus is different, Frank. The Americans are every bit as good at this, as they are at farming. What Martin offers for public subscription, and delivers by post every month—soon every two weeks—is a mixture of information and entertainment. There’s the latest political news, along with detailed explanations about the persons and places mentioned. There are colored plates with the latest fashions, printed with new American methods. There are pictures and descriptions of beautiful homes, and recipes for the most fashionable food. And most of all: there are illustrated jokes and gossip about court scandals and political mistakes. I’ve made quite a lot of those illustrations for the new magazine. I promise you, it’s like nothing you’ve seen before. I’ll give you some copies to take home.”

“Sounds odd to me, but I can well imagine my wife and her sisters with their heads together over such a thing.”

“Yes. And taverns, public libraries, noble households, city councils, discussion groups and students. They are all buying it for the political news, you see. Never dreaming of reading the gossip.”

“Becoming a cynic, Johannes?”

The whimsy faded from Johannes eyes, and he called for two more beers before continuing in an entirely different voice. “The Americans genuinely want to stop things like war, plague, and poverty, and they see democracy and education as some of the most important steps towards that goal. Judging from their history, they are right. Martin is promoting these ideas—spreading them among the gossip and jokes in his new magazine. I have helped him do that, but . . .”

“But now you regret that?”

“No. And I’ll also go on making those pro-democracy cartoons.” Johannes drank deeply from his beer. “It’s just that . . . There is nothing among the American ideas to encourage people to bow to God’s will or trust his priests.”

Frank sat silently for a while, doodling in the wet circles on the table. Bowing to God’s will was something you occasionally were forced to do, when no other choices existed. And trusting a priest? That damned well depended on the priest! Frank had no objection to trusting a trustworthy man who happened also to be a priest. But then that went for tinkers and horse traders as well. Still, even after all his fellow priests had done to him, Johannes saw things differently, and in the end Frank said slowly, “I remember a letter you wrote before taking your vows, Johannes. About how some of your fellow students held long discussions about exactly how many imps were around in the world, and the precise rank of the various kinds of angels in Heaven. These discussions irritated you, since the truth could not be known. Unless you’ve been having divine visions on the sly, you cannot know the future, and I’d say you should just follow your heart.”

“Well, my heart tells me that however they got here, the Americans are not here for evil. Their lack of respect for the Lord still bothers me, but you are right—I cannot know the future. And it’s about time that I decided what I personally should do—with or without the Americans—instead of hiding here.” Johannes smiled wryly into his beer. “I used to be such a self-absorbed little artist, ignoring everything but my paintings, even when reality kicked my arse. Well, Magdeburg definitely did more than just kick, and after my stay here in Grantville, it’s certain I’ll never go back to what I was.”

“Do you plan to leave? You wrote that you felt safe here, but you could go to Jena—or with me back to the estate?”

“I’m probably safer with the Americans than anywhere else. The Inquisition has no power here in Grantville, and Father Mazzare has assured me that I have committed no crime as the Americans see it. In Jena I know Marcus would try to protect me—his pride if nothing else would see to that—but he might not be able to. The Inquisition has no power there. Catholics accusing me of heresy or excommunicating me would not cause trouble with the Protestants. More probably, it would delight them. But blasphemy is an entirely different matter.”

“Blasphemy! You?” Frank laughed.

“That depends on how you define blasphemy, Frank. I was much too upset about Magdeburg to weigh my words. But no, I don’t think I’ll stay here much longer. Perhaps for the winter. It’s safe and pleasant, but I’m tired of hiding, and I don’t really feel at home among the Americans.” Johannes smiled again. “When I first arrived, I actually went around asking people: ‘Do you fear God, and do you fear the Devil?’ Father Mazzare answered that he did fear the Devil, not as a physical figure but as the evil in mankind. The Lord, he did not fear, as the love was too great to leave room for any fear.”

“I like that.”

“Me too. I finally stopped asking after a young American woman answered: ‘Of course not, God is good, and once you know the Devil, you can just avoid him.’” Johannes shook his head. “Such arrogance.”

“And after such a wise counsel, you too decided to trust that God is good and put your faith in Him? You know, ” said Frank, chuckling, “that’s just the kind of thing Louisa’s late sister, Anna, could have said.” Then he went on, still smiling. “I’ve always wondered if you were not at least a little in love with Anna?”

“Don’t be silly. Anna was a frivolous little feather head.”

“And?”

“And she was also a married woman, and I am a Catholic priest.”

Frank laughed at his friend. “I’ve long felt that you needed to do something like falling in love with a married woman. In fact, do anything that would make you forget your paintings and pay some more attention to the people around you. But seriously, what are you planning to do?”

“There’s a man here in Grantville, a Jew named Francisco Nasi. He has suggested accepting a few commissions from some of my old patrons. Keeping my options open, the Americans call it.” Johannes looked into his beer and smiled.

“Well, I can think of a few other things to call that.” Frank’s smile turned into a scowl. “Can’t you think of anything better to do with your life?”

“Oh yes. I haven’t been excommunicated, so I’m still a priest. I’ve been helping Father Mazzare at Saint Mary's here in Grantville, but I never was a parish priest and don’t plan to make a living from that. Instead I’m becoming what the Americans call a middleman for a while.”

“An entremeteur? Well, you did tell me some Americans called priests ‘God-pimps.’” Frank laughed until he nearly fell off the chair.

“Don’t be vulgar. It’s perfectly respectable. And I better go find some food; it’s not small beer we’ve been drinking.” Johannes walked off in a huff.

Even with platters of bread, cheese, pickles and sausage in front of him, Frank kept chuckling, and, as the food reached his stomach, Johannes started smiling too.

“All right Frank, you won that one. But it’s actually a very interesting project. And if it works, even the middleman’s share is likely to be more money than either of us have ever seen.”

“Sounds very interesting.” Frank was suddenly very serious. “With two years of drought, the water in the Saale River is too low for even the rafts to float, and most of the profit from the estate is used to pay for transporting the goods overland. If it hadn’t been for the American crops, there would have been nothing left for your brother’s household in Jena. He’s paid by the university, so it’s not that big a problem for him, but two of my brothers-in-law are forced to look for paying work this winter. With grain yields as low as two to one, they’ll be forced to eat the seed grain, and buy new come spring.”

“That bad? Tell them to come here to Grantville. Especially people used to working with wood or metal are badly needed. And they could learn about the new farming methods from Herr Willie Ray Hudson in the evenings. I’ll introduce you to Herr Hudson, and you can write letters of recommendation. And if any adult female can be spared from the households, they can come too; many of the things the Americans do don’t need large muscles.”

“My sister Felicia is almost as strong as I am, but it’s a very good idea. Thank you. But what is this project of yours?”

“You know porcelain, that beautiful white ceramic imported from China? My mother was so proud of the two porcelain figurines she used to decorate her table at formal dinners along with the more common figures modeled in that sugar paste called tragant. But my first hostess here in Grantville, Frau Kindred, has two big cupboards full of porcelain, including an entire formal dinner set for twelve persons, and a less ornate set, which the family eats from every day. The children too.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. What her grandchildren are not allowed to touch are those beautiful bowls, vases and figurines kept in a glass-fronted cabinet. The oldest, and very finest, are called Meissen.”

“Meissen? In Saxony? On the river Elbe near Dresden?”

“Yes. There are people here in Grantville already working on producing porcelain from local clays. But Grantville is not a good place for a large scale production. It’s just too far from the main routes of transportation. We would need to move the best clay here from Saxony, get the fuel for the big ovens, and then transport the finished products along the roads. That is just not practical.” Johannes stopped to work his fingers and loosen the joints. “I want to work with painting some of the items myself; Frau Kindred’s figurines made my fingers itch to try something similar.”

“Where do you plan to build the factory? Jena?”

“No. The Saale River is not really big enough for transportation above Halle. We need a place near a reliable river connection. We are financing the project by selling shares. And since every royal and noble household in Europe has been paying their weight in gold for the imports, we are having no problems getting all the money we want. The Grantville Council and the Swedish administration have already brought large shares, as have various people in Saxony. Most of the Saxon investors want the new factories in Dresden, while the Americans—and I—want Magdeburg.”

“To help heal what happened there?”

“Yes. And if I go back to painting, the way Don Francisco suggests, I could sell shares where I went. I get percentage of each sale—in shares of course”

“You’ve certainly connected with the real world, Johannes.”

“Yes. Did you ever hear the story about what the sailor said to the nun? And let us have another beer. Remembering Magdeburg still makes me angry.”

***

Early the following morning, Johannes and Frank walked through the sunny streets from their lodgings to the Grange. Despite the early hour, someone was repairing one of the American machines for working in the fields in the parking lot and several horses were tied to the wooden posts erected along one side. In the hall inside the building they found old Willie Ray talking to a delicately built, dark-haired young man whose outfit proclaimed him a cavalry officer, and a big tow-haired man, who was dressed like a servant but had the hands and sunburn of a farmer.

“Good morning, Father Johannes.” Willie Ray nodded to Johannes and turned back to his young visitor. “You asked about the crops painted on the walls here, and here is the painter himself. Father Johannes please meet Prince Ulrik of Denmark. Officially, of course, he is a visiting Danish nobleman, but there’s not much point in trying to pretend with you. You know too many people. Well, then. If the two of you will excuse me I’ll go find our pamphlets about dairy farming.”

The young man stepped forward and shook hands with Johannes, while Frank bowed and went to talk with the prince’s big companion.

Prince Ulrik was the youngest of three sons King Christian IV of Denmark had sired on his queen. Johannes knew that the Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus—whom the young prince had once served as a officer—considered Ulrik to be by far the best of the Danish king’s many children. He was certainly the brightest and most virtuous. Johannes had read a short pamphlet, Castigation of the Vices, that Prince Ulrik had written a few years ago. He met the lively, dark eyes of the intellectual young prince with delight.

“Your Royal Highness.” Johannes followed the young prince’s handshake with a deep bow. “I am honored to meet you. Would you care for some refreshment? I know the contents of the jugs on the table are available to visitors.”

“Yes, please. Wine if possible.” Prince Ulrik smiled, and gestured for Johannes to take a seat on the other chair beside the open window.

“So, you do drink alcohol?” Faced with the friendly smile, Johannes relaxed and dropped most of his formality. Some nobles, even when they were officially traveling incognito, took offense if even the least title or obeisance were omitted, but clearly Prince Ulrik did not. Not to mention that his own stay in Grantville had made him rather impatient with such. “I took the greatest pleasure in reading your treatise on the vices last year.” He handed the prince a rather coarse mug of red wine.

“Thank you.” Prince Ulrik smiled wryly. “At the time I really had nothing to do except writing and doing a few paintings. But it is the lack of moderation in man, rather than the innocent wine I’m opposed to. After all, even Our Lord Jesus created wine.” He sipped the wine and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “An excellent quality. But your works are known to me too, Father Johannes. At least I do suppose that the JIGI, who draws those political satires in the Simplicissimus Magazine, is the same Father Johannes, whose paintings I admired at the Jesuit school in Wuerzburg?”

“It is, but I had no idea the similarity was that obvious.”

“It’s not. But I have seen your broadsheets too, and even copied your way of creating shades during my own meager attempts at the art.” Prince Ulrik smile flashed in his narrow, sunburned face. “I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone, as your use of a pseudonym indicates a wish to be incognito. In fact, I have been pondering possible additional benefits of incognito myself.”

“Oh?”

“His Swedish Majesty, King Gustavus Adolphus, has always shown me the greatest kindness,” the prince said with a pensive frown. “Last year I had intended to take service in Saxony with relatives of my late mother, but His Majesty wrote to me in his own hand, warning me not to do so. Instead I was to come to him as soon as my duties to my royal father permitted this. The American books had warned, not only when and where King Gustavus would die, but also that I would be assassinated while in Saxon service this very year. His Majesty wanted me to enter his service again, but my royal father forbade that. Instead I have been traveling on my father’s behalf.” Prince Ulrik shook his head. “Questioning farmers about breeding cows is not beneath my dignity—and Lars was sent with me to ensure I asked the right questions—but the increasing tension between King Gustavus and my royal father has given me a better appreciation of anonymity. Not to mention the problems between his Swedish majesty and my late mother’s family in Brandenburg and Mecklenburg.” Prince Ulrik smiled again. “Still, it’s not yet bad enough to make me abandon my duties and renounce my family and title.” He then turned serious. “I’d planned to stay in Grantville for a while, Father Johannes, to indulge myself in some studying before returning to Denmark. But Grantville is a republic, and I’m not certain a royal prince would be welcome here. You have lived here for years, Father Johannes, would you expect my royal connection to be a problem?”

“Your Highness, I have absolutely no idea.” Johannes looked toward where Frank and Lars had been joined by Willie Ray, who was showing the two farmers something in the papers he was holding. “The Americans pay little attention to formal rank, and are very devoted to the idea of democracy. Calling them republicans is a bit like calling the pope a Catholic. On the other hand they have no problem—mostly—with accepting King Gustavus Adolphus as their Captain-General, and welcome him quite warmly. That your royal connections are Danish might in fact be more of a problem.” Johannes frowned. “The American attitude towards enemies is different from what I would have expected, but I cannot quite pinpoint the nature ...