Ruth watches the breeze bending the branches of the linden trees, rustling through the budding leaves like water streaming through river weed. What if she does not succeed? What if the prince cannot be cured, what then? One moment of doubt unleashes a multitude of others. Remembering Spinoza’s philosophy of applying intellectual discipline to rein in one’s passions, she tries to become as detached as possible. She will separate her emotions from her craft. She will approach the prince like any other patient. Images of the anatomy of the midriff float across her mind’s eye: the spiralling length of the bowel, the small intestine, the stomach, the spleen. It has to be the bowel, she concludes just as Detlef interrupts.
‘You know, in that dress you could be mistaken for a Bavarian princess.’
‘But why should I wish to be?’
‘I just meant—’
‘You meant that I no longer resemble a Hebrew?’
Detlef blushes for this is exactly what he meant. ‘I intend no offence.’
‘You are right, Canon, in these clothes I could pass for a dark-haired southerner or perhaps an Austrian. But as soon as I walked into a banquet hall or a court my bearing would give me away. I cannot picture what it is to travel and live freely, unencumbered by race. I cannot imagine what it is to be born a count or a lord or a countess, to believe in one’s innate superiority. My own father taught me to believe in intelligence, spiritual wisdom and the written word. But he also brought me up in a world where we are unwanted, mistrusted and must learn to become invisible to survive.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘I was a bad pupil. So you see, even in this dress I could not walk beside you without fear.’
Silently Detlef grapples with the reality of her world. Ruth, reading his stillness as acquiescence, continues.
‘He also tried to teach me to be a good Jewish wife, to never ask questions, to watch hidden above the men at prayer. Pointlessly he wrestled
with me in an attempt to convince me to respect the confines of my sex and finally, when he betrothed me, I fled.’
‘You are an unusual creature. I have not yet met a woman like you.’
‘I am surprised that a man of the cloth should have many female acquaintances, unless of course they are also in service.’
‘Fräulein Saul, my dedication is to the piety of the soul not to the purity of the body.’
He stares directly at her with candour, his desire obvious. Suddenly Ruth knows with absolute certainty that he wants her. Trembling, she waits.
Leaning forward Detlef takes her hand, and turning it palm up begins to unbutton the row of seed pearls that fasten the kid glove. The tips of his fingers draw small circles of ecstasy across her skin, stroking the centre of her palm so softly it is as if he has guessed the intelligence of her pleasure, every caress sending ripples throughout her whole body while he maintains his steady gaze, a knowing smile playing across his lips.
It is the smile of a connoisseur, of one who delights in his craft, Ruth thinks, shivering at the thought of what those hands so skilfully promise. After an eternity he reaches her naked wrist, where he pauses for permission. Bewildered, she pulls away, struggling to rebutton what he has undone.
‘Of the soul I know something.’ She tries to cover the rawness of her confusion with words. ‘Of the body nothing, except in the landscape of the medic. Perhaps I shall die this way. I cannot see myself as a wife.’
‘If there is a man who can fire your imagination, he will deserve your hand.’
‘Perhaps.’
Blushing, she turns away.
The coach begins to climb. Ruth watches as the thick forest thins out to mountainous scrubland with a sparse cover of spruce trees and pine saplings. A herd of rugged-looking goats grazing amid the undergrowth comes into view as the coach continues up the broken muddy track. Finally the land opens out to a windy plain. Here icy banks lie thawing while spring growth breaks the stained snow with shoots of bright green.
Detlef knocks against the roof of the coach with his cane. The coachman shouts out to the horses in a guttural dialect; their gallop slows to a canter and then pulls to a halt.
‘Forgive me. I am, alas, all too human under my breeches.’ And with that Detlef climbs out.
Ruth gives him a moment then follows. The fresh alpine air sears her lungs and blows away the mustiness of the coach. A few feet away Detlef makes water while Ruth casts her eyes over the panorama.
One side of the road is the mountain climbing upwards, while below lies a valley with a broad river snaking a path along the bottom of it. Ruth watches a band of sunlight travel across the sloping tracts of forest, transforming the trees from dark olive to a luminous emerald as the light catches their waving tops.
‘See yonder?’ Detlef points down. The glistening roofs of a small settlement cradled in a curve of the river are just visible. ‘That is my brother’s land. I grew up riding through the lanes of that village. Das Grüntal, the hunting lodge, is beyond the next valley. The forest is good for boar in winter and pheasant in spring. My brother is uncommonly fond of the hunt. If only he had such a love for his serfs.’
‘Do you have no jurisdiction?’
‘Fräulein, I am the second son. Naturally the only path which promised influence was the church.’
‘Perhaps it is a blessing. At least you will have the joys of being an uncle.’
‘The possibility of my brother begetting an heir is remote. His marriage is a childless sham and shall remain so. No, I’m afraid the property will go to my cousin upon the count’s death.’