The Chronicles of
Karl von Lindenheim
"At the tender age of thirteen, I was castrated, so I have never truly known what it was like to be a man."
In that manner, I have for many years been accustomed to beginning the story of my life. Only more recently have I begun to realize that there are many things which make a man, and I have never truly been anything less than that, no matter what parts may have been missing.
Born in 1530 not far from Oberammergau, I had a reasonably happy childhood as the only son and heir to the modest estate of Lindenheim. A frail and bookish lad, I was doted on by my mother, Mathilde, but only grudgingly accepted by my father, Heinrich von Lindenheim. It seemed I was not the sturdy and aggressive sort of heir he had had in mind. Mathilde, a devout Catholic, inculcated her own love of the Church into her young son.
This comfortable state of affairs was disrupted by the arrival of a pair of lusty twin baby boys when I was nine years of age. Active, demanding, and physically precocious, the twins soon became the favorites of my father. When they grew older and were seriously hurt in a fall down a flight of stairs, Father unfairly placed the blame on me. (It is true that I wished my brothers no good and had often before played vicious pranks on them, but, upon my word of honor, I was not the cause of this particular accident.)
After bullying my poor mother into admitting, as he had long suspected and doubtless hoped, that I was not truly his son but only a bastard, he determined to do away with me entirely.
When Mother pleaded for my life, Father gave in and arranged instead for me to be sent away to a conservatory in the Italian city of Milan, telling me I was to be trained to sing in service to the Church. As I found out – alas! -- too late, he had also arranged to have me castrated, ostensibly in order to retain my soprano voice into adulthood, something that was just becoming stylish at that time for choir singers. I believe his true purpose to have been preventing me from fathering children, so that there should be no possibility of an heir appearing in the future to challenge my brothers' claim to the estate.
The operation having been performed almost before I realized what was happening, I found myself duly enrolled as a student in the conservatory, as promised.
With no other choice, I resigned myself to my fate. Much to my dismay and despite my best efforts, my voice turned out to be nothing exceptional. I did, however, develop a sinful attraction to the older boys and men at the conservatory, something that I strove mightily to suppress.
Some years later, a letter came from my father advising me of my dear mother's death and making it very plain that he would not be willing to support me for very much longer. From then on, I knew I was alone in the world, with little in the way of prospects for the future.
Enclosed within the letter was a note bearing my mother's seal. She had obviously been on her deathbed when she wrote it, giving me her final assurances of her love. She also told me that my true father had been a young Jew, on his way to take up his studies with a famous rabbi in Prague. He had been taken ill and stayed at Lindenheim for some weeks, while she had been a young and unhappy wife. She had, of course, repented of her indiscretion and tried to keep it secret, but felt it was now time for me to know.
As might be imagined, it was a shock to discover that I had Jewish blood. However, as the Jews recognize only the mother as the true purveyor of Jewishness, I would not rightly be acknowledged as such by them, even had I wished to be, which I did not.
As my time at the conservatory drew to an end, I was favorably noticed by Bishop Albertini, who was on his way to a new assignment at the cathedral in Florence. Drawn into an illicit liaison with His Excellency, I was promised a place as assistant choirmaster, if I would come to Florence. With some misgivings, but seeing no other likely possibilities, I accepted this offer.
During the next six years, I learned much about the reality of life in the Church. I saw at first hand the rampant corruption and frequent abuses of power, not the least of which was the Bishop's use of me as his catamite.
Yet also did I see many good and honest souls amongst the clergy and religious. Humble friars taught humility and poverty by living it themselves. Pious nuns lovingly tended the sick and lame. There were many good works that were simply taken for granted, too commonplace to be noticed or remarked upon. But there were just as many wrongs and injustices, where holiness should have reigned supreme.
Should I really have been so surprised? Is not this the way of the world, in any case? Wealth buys privilege, luxury, power, and ease. Why should it be any different in the Church? Are not all human creatures sinners at heart, much needful of forgiveness?
Ah, but why then were the most egregious sinners numbered amongst those who preached the loudest about the necessity of virtue and holiness?
As a result of being given a copy of an heretical book by an intriguing stranger, I became aware of the teachings of the Protestant Reformers of the time. And yet, as I surreptitiously read more about them and their followers, I did not see a very great difference between the Reformers and the ones they sought to reform. No matter what the creed, hatred and persecution of those who disagreed seemed all too commonplace. As a result, I began to question not only my own Faith, but also the efficacy of faith in general.
Disenchanted with my relationship with Bishop Albertini, I became foolishly enamoured of the attractive young organist at the cathedral. When he and I were discovered in flagrante delicto, the Bishop threw me out with only the clothes on my back.
Wandering the streets of Florence in despair, I was set upon by robbers and left beaten and freezing in the winter night. I was felicitously discovered by the stranger who had given me the book that led to my fall from grace, one Vittorio Venanzi, who turned out to be the owner of a very exclusive brothel.
Vittorio took me home and initiated me into a life of luxury and sexual pleasures far beyond my wildest imaginings.
I went on to spend the better part of my adult years with Vittorio, serving the exotic and varied pleasures of his wealthy clients, both male and female. As a castrato, I was somewhat of a novelty and greatly in demand. I already knew much about bedding men, but now I learned also how to bed women. As I could sire no children, my services were much in demand by the fairer sex. I did my duty in this regard, but my desire didn't naturally turn in that direction. I preferred the hard urgency of a man.
At Vittorio's insistence, I was taught how to dress and act like a woman, for those clients who wished such a thing. 'Tis a skill that has saved my life more than once in difficult situations, and also given me an unusual insight into the fairer sex. He also insisted that I learn the use of the rapier and the dagger. While my talent for this art was no better than my talent for singing, it turned out to be another skill that would prove useful on future occasions.
I came to love the strength and hardness of a man's body pressed against mine, but I yearned to match that strength, to the best of my poor ability, not merely harness and manipulate it for my own purposes, as a woman might do. I wanted to feel that courage in my own heart, so I could live with the same confidence and toughness that I saw in my much-admired patron and master, Vittorio. It was he who made me see my body as desirable, instead of disgraceful. And it was he who made me a man. Or at least, as much of a man as I would ever be
One day Vittorio brought me a large jar full of powder, which he had obtained, he said, at much expense from a wise old woman herbalist. He bade me dissolve several spoonfuls in hot water, and drink it twice a day, but he would not say why. Puzzled, I obeyed.
As the weeks and months passed and I continued to drink this mysterious potion, I felt a change inside my body. Subtle at first, but later undeniable.
One day, glancing closely at my face in a mirror, I half-imagined that the soft fuzz that had always covered my cheeks was just a bit darker and coarser than I recalled. Was it truly possible, I wondered? (After many years, I would indeed be able to grow a respectable, albeit scraggly, beard.)
Other things changed along with my visage. My soprano voice cracked at unpredictable times. Much to my delight, my body lost some of the soft and womanly contours of the castrato, becoming more spare and angular. No, I was not some artist's ideal of manhood, but neither was I any longer an overgrown child.
When I asked Vittorio what was in this wondrous potion, he said the herbalist would tell him only some of the ingredients, which included avena satira, sabal serrulata, and urica dioica. All else was and would remain her secret. He did, however, put me in contact with the wise woman, in order that I could assure myself of a constant supply, since she had made it clear that I must always take my daily doses if I wished the effects to continue. This I faithfully did, and will do, for the remainder of my life. Upon the eventual death of this blessed woman, she handed on both myself and her secret to her apprentice. (No, I will not divulge her name, not for any amount of money. It is part of the pact between us.)
As time went on, I discovered that it wasn't merely the appearance of my body that had been altered. Where once my desire had merely simmered, it could now more readily be brought to a boil.
But something even more wondrous happened: my courage awoke and I felt a new sense of confidence and pride. I lifted my face to the sky and laughed. No longer did my eyes slide sideways and down in the presence of other men. Now I looked at them levelly, as an equal, not a freak. I fully expected them to see in me merely a comrade, and not a pitiful gelding.
And now at last I came to fully understand what it was that had been taken from me, so many years ago.
However, with this dawning courage and confidence, I also came to understand something else: the rage that could so easily overtake a man's heart, the lecherous beast that could drive all other considerations aside until it had been satisfied, and the overweening pride that could blind a man to his true nature and his own faults.
If I could feel this, with only the weak grasp upon manhood that had newly been granted me, how much stronger must it be for others? As a result, I understood my fellow men far better. And, understanding, I only loved them more, for I had a distant knowledge of the demons they daily fought and – usually – conquered.
Vittorio, of course, welcomed the increase in my desire, both for him and for my work. Now, I begged for opportunities for its satisfaction, where previously I had been but lukewarm in my enthusiasm.
My clients adored me, for now I had become far more willing to do anything to please them, in an effort to please myself.
As my body awoke to its full potential, so also did my mind cast off its restraints and shackles. Never had I seen a library like Vittorio's. Ah, you may say, but I had had access to cathedral libraries that must surely have been more impressive and contained greater numbers of books and manuscripts. Yes, that may be so. But the strangeness of Vittorio's library consisted in this, that no book took for granted the teachings of the Church. Some there were that made nominal obeisance, but it was clear to me that it was for the sake of necessity only.
And what did these books take for their subjects of discourse? Why, nothing other than the natural world itself, considered for its own sake and on its own merits. For me, who had been for so long taught to despise all but spiritual matters, this interest in the world around me was truly a revelation.
Giving myself over to these new subjects, I dismissed all my earlier learning as foolishness. Tell me no more of a God, a Trinity, a Church. Give me no more priests or preachers, no serried ranks of angels, no legion of devils. Tell me instead of stars and planets moving grandly through the heavens, of the wonders to be found inside the body itself, and the many and varied creatures inhabiting the world.
I read – nay, I devoured -- all this.
Despite my rather inauspicious beginnings, I had at last entered into the spirit of enlightenment and learning that swept the world during my lifetime, becoming an enthusiastic scholar of the many new ideas that surfaced like bits of meat in a stewpot, once it had been set to a rolling boil.
My weak eyes turned weaker still from spending so much time in the library. Seeing this, Vittorio obtained a pair of glass lenses fastened together with wires, so that I might see better with less effort. They were cumbersome and awkward, perching heavily on the bridge of my nose. I took to holding them on by attaching small wires to the sides and bending them around my ears. I had one set for reading and another for improving my vision at a distance. If my appreciation of the beauty of the world had been great before, it was now multiplied a thousand times because I could see it in all its clarity!
As the years passed and I matured, Vittorio and I became close friends, as well as partners in various business transactions, mostly involving the import and sale of luxury goods. I especially enjoyed our dealings in the style of pottery referred to as Majolica, which consisted of everyday objects like plates or pitchers, with bright classical borders, portraits, historic scenes, or geometric designs. Some of the better pieces seemed almost like rich tapestries done in clay rather than fabric.
Fortune smiled upon us, and in time we even owned a ship together, often sailing on business to the realms bordering on the Mediterranean and even venturing into the colder climes to be found on the northern coast of the Atlantic.
And all this I owed to Vittorio Venanzi, who had shown me what life could be like.
Did I love my Vittorio? I do not know. As he himself would often tell me, love is a word for women to use. The meaning changes when a man, even such a man as myself, uses it for his feelings toward another man. Lust, desire, comradeship, loyalty, and devotion. These things could exist between men. Love could not.
Love is for a woman, who needs the power and protection of a man. Love is for the one who would bear your children and keep your home. Love is a promise, however often broken, of faithfulness and forever. It is based on the woman's weakness and vulnerability, no matter that this weakness is often hidden by deceit and manners, and the vulnerability by beauty and artifice.
Following Vittorio's example, love was a word I swore never to use. However, we were fast friends and comrades, both in the bedchamber and without. Some of our seafaring adventures would have raised the hair on your head if I told you of them. There were fierce pirates, hideous and dangerous beasts in strange lands, storms that almost overwhelmed our sturdy vessel.
But I wander, and all those tales must be set aside for a future telling. Suffice it to say that by the time of Vittorio's tragic death in a duel in the year 1574, we owed each other our lives many times over.
Some weeks after his funeral, as I knelt grieving at his graveside, bereft of my beloved patron's friendship and guidance, I could not help but ponder what direction I wished to take for the remainder of my life. Not only had I made my own fortune, but I had also inherited a considerable portion of Vittorio's, and thus I did not lack for possibilities.
The air smelled green again that morning after the long winter that had passed. It took me back to other springtimes, other mornings, the delights of those new growing things in the nostrils of a child.
What is it about a smell that seems to bring back memories? Surely, I know not, but those memories flooded through my mind, whether I willed it or no.
The scent of a certain flower. The way the afternoon sunlight slanted through the stained glass window in our private chapel. The call of a bird.
But more than that – the feelings returned. The joy mingled with the sorrow. The innocence and glory of childhood, combined with its helplessness and fear. The wonder of just being alive on the first warm day of spring.
Most of all, the vast forests of linden trees that had given the estate its name, with their spade-shaped leaves blowing in the wind, whispering secrets to each other in a breathless rustle.
Ah, how I had loved those modest lindens! They had not the height nor breadth of the stately oaks that towered above them, but they were content to be as they were, true to their own nature. In some places, I knew they were sometimes referred to as "protector of the oak", although how a smaller and weaker tree could protect an oak had never made sense to me before. Yet had not I, surely the weaker of us, sometimes protected Vittorio from danger and hardship? Had not my constant friendship and support many times buttressed him against the blows of fickle fortune?
Like the linden trees, perhaps my nature was to be the loyal follower, rather than the mighty oak. And perhaps there was nothing shameful or weak in being so.
In the days that followed, I could not banish the vision of my beloved lindens.
I decided it was time to go home, to find out what had transpired in the more than thirty years since my banishment. My mother, I knew, had died while I was at the conservatory, but now I longed to re-visit Lindenheim and see if there was any chance for reconciliation with whatever might remain of my family.
There is an old saying to the effect that you can't go home again. Well, you can, and I have done it. But if you do, you had best be prepared for some unforeseen surprises, for nothing remains the same forever.
I returned to find the estate in ruins. Concealing my identity, I made discreet inquiries into what had happened, finding that my father was long dead, and my brothers, now living there in squalor, continued to drink and gamble away what was left of their inheritance.
Large sections of the forest had been razed. My brothers had cut and sold off many of the stately old trees on our estate, even some of my precious lindens. Where there had been tidy tenant farms, the weeds ran in untamed profusion over ruined homesteads. Even the manor house itself had deteriorated shamefully. I was appalled by the desolation and destruction that had been wrought, but soon realized the opportunity afforded me by the situation.
Still without revealing who I was, I was able to discover just how deeply in debt my brothers were. Hiring an agent to approach them with my offer, I found that my brothers, like Esau of Biblical fame, were all too willing to sell their birthright for a mess of pottage. I was able to purchase Lindenheim for a fraction of its true worth.
Thanks to my many years of experience with Vittorio, I had learned very well the skills necessary to manage an enterprise in order to turn a tidy profit.
I brought in hard-working tenant farmers, offering generous terms for their labor. I sought out skilled woodworkers and craftsmen who could produce a line of quality goods, encouraging them to open shops on the less arable sections of the estate. I managed the remaining forests carefully, harvesting trees after much consideration and in amounts sufficient only for the luxury goods produced by my craftsmen. Located relatively close to the mercantile centers of the Italian city-states, I was even able to run a small import/export business, helped by my fluency in the language and the contacts I had made through Vittorio. Once again, I found myself trading in my beloved Majolica pottery. When funds allowed, I made repairs to the manor house, then purchased as much of the surrounding forestland as I could.
Remembering my own heritage, I even invited the presence of a Jewish money lender in my little village.
I had indeed gone home again, only to find that there was nothing worth returning to, other than that which I myself had called into being. But is that not often the case?
And what of my profligate brothers? They continued to squander their money in foolish and boorish pursuits, having never learned any lessons from their past. Neither married, but they had both sired numerous illegitimate children.
Knowing I could father no children, I searched out my brothers' bastards and found one of them worthy of becoming my heir. As my faculties began to decline and I tired of managing the everyday business of the estate, I trained young Raphael to take my place. An apt and very grateful pupil, he has done well as my steward and devoted companion, much as I was to Vittorio. Lately though, he has been finding many reasons for visiting the money lender. I suspect it has something to do with paying court to the Jew's lovely young daughter, rather than borrowing money. Such a match would please me immensely, as she is a woman of good character and many accomplishments.
Now almost sixty years of age, I am free to travel if I wish, or sit at home in comfort and consider my long and varied life. The world shifted during my lifetime, much as my own views and ideas had shifted. My own changes had perhaps been more extreme than those of the general population, but by and large they had followed the same directions. Traditional faith gave way to questioning and doubts of all kinds. The natural world began to be studied in its own right and on its own terms, not in the writings of some long-dead philosophers. A new restlessness disturbed the peoples of the world, and new and dangerous thoughts were being whispered from ear to ear. Not all of these new ideas were benign or comforting, but I do think they were for the best, overall.
In addition to my own studies, during my travels with Vittorio, I had experienced life in many different societies, picking up insights and philosophies as I went. Now I seek to integrate all this varied knowledge into a coherent whole, something at which I fear I am not always successful. Perhaps it is an undertaking far too large for one mind alone to encompass.
Whenever the urge strikes me, I work at setting down my thoughts and memoirs, as I am doing here.
Yet I know full well that the daytime of my life draws to an end. I have reached the time when the long shadows fall and the sunlight slants so sharply it dazzles the eyes if you have to look in that direction. Or, at least, it dazzles my eyes, now that I am no longer young.
But still, I love this time, just before darkness falls. Colors are softened by the layers of shadow, rather than faded in the intense light of noon. Details stand out clearly, as if each green leaf had been painted by hand, its sharp-edged shadow etched lovingly into the bark of the tree trunk onto which it falls.
Somehow, the fading light becomes all the more precious, when you feel the approach of impending nightfall.
Birds sing their closing psalms for the day, to hurry home to settle into their nests, while the night creatures stretch and come awake. An early bat flutters on its erratic course from insect to insect, as the eye tries in vain to dart as quickly in its wake, and catch more than a fleeting glimpse of the tiny winged creature.
I dwell most comfortably in this border country between day and night. But why should I not, for am I not a creature of the borders myself, rather than of sharp distinctions? To be neither one nor the other suits me well, dwelling as I have between male and female, man and woman. Indeed, knowing them both, I can take the best of either. For, contrary to popular belief, borders are not walls, but places where one thing blends subtly into another, changing by some imperceptible alchemy from light to dark, balancing on the narrow fence of Time, which is itself not one nor yet the other.
Lindenheim Arms
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