Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

Nuremberg, Franconia, 10 October 1524

Fourth article: […]Accordingly it is our desire if a man holds possession of running waters that he should prove from satisfactory documents that his right has been acquired by purchase in good faith. […]� But whosoever cannot produce such evidence should surrender his claim with good grace.

Fifth article: […]It should, moreover, be free to every member of the community to help himself to such firewood as he needs in his home.. […]

Sixth article: Our sixth complaint is in regard to the excessive services demanded of us which are increased from day to day. […]We ask that this matter be properly looked into so that we shall not continue to be oppressed in this way, […]since our forefathers were required only to serve according to the word of God.

We enter Nuremberg by the north gate. On the left, the imposing towers of the imperial Fortress remind us of what we know already: this city is one of the biggest, finest and wealthiest cities in the whole of Europe. Before us the towering steeples of St Sebald soar into the sky, and on either side of the street painters and sculptors are at work in their shops. Ottilie swears that the house of the great Albrecht D�rer is a few yards away. The house of Johannes Denck, whom we are supposed to be meeting this morning, is over towards K�nigstrasse, at the southern corner of the rhombus that delimits the heart of the city.

We pass through the Market Square, intoxicated with the smell of incense, perfumes and spices from India, the colours of Chinese silks fluttering in the sun, the seven Electors bowing to the Emperor right above our heads, on the clock of the Church of Our Lady.

Since we entered the city Hans Hut, the bookseller, has been staying back with the Magister immediately behind us, keeping to a deliberately slower pace. The reason: he maintains that in Nuremberg, whichever gate you enter by, if you instinctively follow the flow of the crowd you will sooner or later find yourself drawn by an invisible current to St Lawrence’s Square. So, lest he influence the result of the experiment, he keeps himself at a distance, since these streets have no secrets for him. In spite of this precaution, the demonstration is also proved false, because the towers of St Lawrence appear in all their imposing presence the moment we cross the bridge over the river that divides the city.

*�

There’s a frenetic coming and going of people in the press. A day of important meetings: a ferment of contacts, dialogues, projects announcing new weeks of earthquake and revolution. The peasants are running wild: not a day passes without news of plunder, insurrections, everyday brawls turning into tumults, from one region to the next. The network of contacts that the Magister has been cultivating with obsessive precision for years is extensive and complex, forever broadening and supplying fresh information. And then, most important of all, there’s the printing press; that stupefying piece of technology which, like a dry and windy forest fire, is spreading� by day, giving us plenty of ideas for ways of sending messages and incitements further and faster to reach the brethren, who have sprung up like mushrooms in every corner of the country.

The two apprentices are furiously at work in Herr Herrgott’s printing room in Nuremberg. Their hands swiftly turn lead characters into ink-marks on paper, a swarm of words on the page. Rapid glances and agile fingers composing the Magister’s writings: projectiles fired in all directions by the most powerful of cannons. The press, in the corner, seems to sleep as it waits to print the final seal.

They didn’t take much persuasion. Herrgott has been out of town for a week, and the presence of Hut, Pfeiffer, Denck and Magister Thomas all at the same time would have convinced anyone. The swirl of speeches, the passion and the faith of these men could get the dead back to work.

I smile dreamily, but I am listening attentively to the dialogue going on around the table, at the back of the print-room. They are immersed in their discussion. Hans Hut is from around here, and he lives in Bibra, a few miles from here, an excellent distributor of printed material for some years now. He printed the first part of Luther’s translation of the Gospel, and that brought him a lot of credit, but he didn’t put it in the princes’ banks. Given the vast amount of work coming in, he is trying to open a printing press of his own, in Bibra: a major initiative, which may see the light of day one of these weeks. At any rate, he’s familiar with all the current printing techniques, and his advice is indispensable.�

Johannes Denck looks about my age, sly as a weasel. He’s from around here too, well known to the local authorities, but for some time he’s been travelling around the countryside and the villages as far as the regions of the North Sea. A provocateur, an agitator by trade, he’s someone you’d want to have on your side to ensure that his free spirit didn’t turn against you.� He also has a brilliantly intelligent way with the Scriptures: the city is in turmoil about a sermon of his in which he listed forty paradoxes encountered in the Gospels. He says that for the faithful ‘there is no other guide’ in our reading ‘but the inner world of God, which comes from the Holy Spirit’. The Magister appreciates his acumen, his cunning and the huge amount of information that he’s brought back from his travels. The text he wrote in M�hlhausen, and which we have brought back here, also mentions these things.

‘That mass of flaccid meat that lives in Wittenberg, Friar Secrecy, wants to keep the Scripture far from the eyes of the peasants. He’s afraid of being toppled from the throne on which he rests his arse. The peasants should keep their heads low over their ploughs while he becomes the new Pope. This scandal must come to an end, it’s time he was unmasked! The word of the Lord must be accessible to everyone, the humble in particular should be able to encounter it directly and meditate upon it consciously, without it having first to pass through the slobbering mouths of the scribes.’

It’s the Magister talking. Denck nods and speaks. ‘This is all true, no doubt. But we’ve got other problems to deal with too. The peasants aren’t everything. And then there’s the towns: you’ve seen M�hlhausen. As I told you, I’ve spent some incredible weeks in that port on the North Sea, Antwerp. The merchants there are wealthy and powerful, the shipping traffic is growing by the hour, and the city is in ferment with unquiet souls. There’s one brother there, a roof-tiler whom many people consider coarse and ignorant, but who preaches and incites free spirits to rebel against the wicked. You’d be amazed to see whose ear he catches: furriers, ship-owners, stone-merchants with their illustrious families, along with brewers, carpenters and tramps. It’s cash, in the end, and cash supports all kinds of causes. The fucking townspeople of our city are bigots and inclined to barter small advantages for the submission of the peasants and the preservation of the princes. It’s their arses we’re going to kick!’

‘If we manage to appropriate their shops to print our writings, there won’t be such need for money!’ Hut laughs to himself.

‘Shut up, though, for months now you’re been making projects for your new printing press, and meanwhile you’re forcing us to do somersaults!’ mocks Pfeiffer.

‘No, no, we’re going to do it this time! We’ll be ready in less than a month. They’ve assured me that the press is already on its way, and if there wasn’t so much trouble about the place it would have been ready weeks ago.’

Denck gives him a dig in the ribs. ‘And you, mister lion-heart, aren’t keen on trouble…’

We all burst out laughing.

Meanwhile Herrgott’s apprentices haven’t lifted their heads from the composition table: they won’t for a while yet. For some time I’ve been staring at a basket full of strips of paper of various dimensions. I point it out to Hut: ‘What’s that for?’

‘Nothing. That’s the discards: this press prints four pages on each big sheet. When you cut them, there’s always a bit left over.

‘Couldn’t you cram the characters closer together and make the margin smaller?’

‘Yes, but why bother? Isn’t all this wasted paper enough for you?’

‘Maybe it’s a stupid thing to say, but I thought that apart from the Magister’s writings, you could get these surplus sheets from any print, then print our message on them in a few effective and memorable lines, and you could distribute them by hand, travelling around the countryside. We could circulate them via brethren scattered all over the place, we could reach everyone, I don’t know, it’s just a thought…’

Silence. Pfeiffer thumps the table: ‘We could print hundreds of them! Thousands!’

The Magister’s eyes gleam much as they do when he is fired up by one of his sermons, his smile makes me glow.

‘You’ve grown up, son: you’ve just got to learn to stand up for your ideas more forcefully.’

Hut picks up a strip of paper from the basket, picks up pen and ink-pot, and starts doing a few sums. He mutters to himself: ‘It could work, it could work…’

He almost leaps from his seat to turn around and shout at the printers: ‘You two, stop! Stop everything!’