Q - Luther Blissett (interesting novels to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
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‘Cellarius told me you can give me information about what happened in Zwickau…’
He picks up his mug and takes two draughts from it, fill his moustache with foam.
‘Why’re you interested?
‘I had enough of Wittenberg.’
His eyes fix on me for the first time, suddenly clear: I’m not joking.
‘Brother Storch and the weavers revolted against the city council. We attacked a congregation of Franciscans, threw stones at an insolent Catholic and dislodged a preacher…’
I interrupt him. ‘Tell me about M�ntzer.’
He nods. ‘Ah, M�ntzer, say the name quietly so that Melanchthon doesn’t shit himself!’ He laughs. ‘His sermons are setting everyone’s souls ablaze. The echo of his words has reached as far as Bohemia, he has been called by the city council of Prague to preach against false prophets there.’
‘Who does he have in mind?’
He points his thumb over his shoulder, outside.
‘Everyone who denies that the spirit of God can speak directly to men, to people like me and you or those workmen over there. Everyone who usurps the word of God with their faithless talk. Everyone who wants a silent God, a God who says nothing. Everyone who claims to want to bring the food of the soul to the people, while leaving their bellies empty. Tongues in the pay of the princes.’
Light, a vanishing weight. The things that I have always thought become clear.
I would hug you, Prophet.
‘And what does M�ntzer have to say about Wittenberg?’
‘All they do is talk here. The truth is that Luther is now in the hands of the Elector. The people have risen up, but where is their pastor? Fattening himself in some luxurious castle! Believe me, everything we’ve fought for is in peril. We’ve come here with the specific purpose of confronting Luther in public and unmasking him, if he’s brave enough to come out of his lair. Meanwhile we’ve challenged Melanchthon. But as far as M�ntzer’s concerned they’re both dead already. His words are only for the peasants, the ones who thirst for life.’
Abandon the dead: get back to life. Get out of this marshland.
‘Where’s M�ntzer now?’
‘Travelling around Thuringia, preaching,’ My expression tells him all he needs to know. ‘It isn’t hard to track him down. He leaves a trail behind him.’
I get up and pay for his beers.
‘Thanks. Your words have meant a lot to me.’
Before I leave him he looks me, straight in the eyes, almost issuing an order: ‘Find him, son… Find the Coiner.’
Wittenberg, March 1522
I rush along, almost slipping in the mud, my breath ahead of me cutting through the morning frost. In the university courtyard Cellarius is talking to some friends. I reach him and drag him into a corner, leaving the others speechless.
‘Karlstadt’s finished.’
He speaks in as low a voice as mine: ‘I told you so. They’ve slackened Luther’s leash. The old rector’s for the chop.’
‘Yeah. He was too good. His days are numbered.’ I give him time to read the determination in my eyes, then continue: ‘I’ve decided, Cellarius. I’m leaving Wittenberg. There’s nothing left here to make it worth staying.’
A moment of panic in his face.
‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘No, but I’m sure that the right thing isn’t staying here… Have you heard what that wretch Luther has been saying since he got back?’
He nods, lowering his eyes, but I go on. ‘He argues that it’s the duty of the Christian to give blind obedience to authority, without ever lifting his head… That no one can dare to say no… He’s disobeyed the Pope, Cellarius, the Pope, the Roman Church! But now he’s the Pope and no one’s allowed to breathe!’
He’s getting more and more dark and disheartened under the blows of my words.
‘I should have left two months ago with St�bner and the others. I’ve waited for too long… But I wanted to hear Luther speaking, I wanted to hear what I have heard from his own voice. Listen to me, our only hope is to get out of here.’ A hand gestures towards the countryside that lies beyond the walls. ‘He who comes from above is above everything; but he who comes from the earth belongs to the earth and speaks of the earth… Do you remember?’
‘Yes, M�ntzer’s words…’
‘I’ll find him, Cellarius. They say he’s somewhere near Halle now.’
He smiles at me in silence, his eyes are bright. We both know we want to leave together. And we also know that Martin Borrhaus, known as Cellarius, isn’t the kind to throw himself into an enterprise of this kind.
He shakes my hand firmly, it’s almost an embrace.
‘Good luck then, pal. May God be with you.’
‘See you. In a better time and place.’
Halle, Thuringia, 30 April 1522
The man who brings me to the Coiner is like a mountain: a black cloud of thick hair and beard around the head of a bull, enormous miner’s hands. His name is Elias, he’s followed M�ntzer from Zwickau, never leaving him, like a great protecting shadow. A glance to weigh up what he has before him: a few kilos of raw meat, for a stone-cutter from the Erzgebirge. A little student with his head full of conjectures in Latin, asking to speak to Magister Thomas, as he calls him_._
‘Why are you looking for the Magister?’ he asked me straight away.
I told him about the time when M�ntzer’s voice petrified Melanchthon, and about my meeting with the prophet St�bner.
‘If brother St�bner is a prophet then I’m the archbishop of Mainz!’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘The Magister’s voice, though, that’s the one to grab you by the balls!’
It’s a working men’s house. Three knocks on the door and it opens up. A young woman with a baby at the breast, the massive form of Elias brings me into the only room. In the corner, a man is shaving with his back to us, intoning a popular song that I’ve already heard in an inn.
‘Magister, there’s a man here who’s come from Wittenberg to speak to you.’
He turns round, razor in hand. ‘Good. Someone can tell me what’s going on in that pigsty.’
A round head, a big nose, flaming eyes that trouble an otherwise affable face.
Without hesitation: ‘Nothing can happen from now on. Karlstadt has been exiled.’
He nods to himself in confirmation. ‘Who did he think he was dealing with? Behind brother Martin you’ve got Frederick,’ he waves his razor around in anger. ‘And our friend Karlstadt… He thought he was going to carry out his reformation in the Elector’s house! By the leave of Friar Untruth himself. In a menagerie of aldermen and little scholars who think fates of men depend on their little inkpots… Their pens won’t write the reforms we’re waiting for.’
For the first time he seems to turn towards me. ‘Did Luther and Melanchthon banish you as well?’
‘No. I left of my own accord.’
‘And why did you come here?’
The giant Elias hands me a stool, I sit down and begin the parable of Old Karlstadt, the farce of the Luther kidnapping, the arrival of the Prophets of Zwickau.
They listen attentively and understand my frustration, disappointment with Luther’s reforms, the hatred for the bishops and princes that has matured over the years. The words are the right ones, and come easily to the tongue. They nod seriously, M�ntzer puts his razor back on the little table and starts to get dressed. The giant no longer looks at me with ill-concealed scorn.
Then, the master of the humble folk puts on his coat and is already at the door.
‘A day filled with things to do!’ he smiles. ‘Go on with your story in the street.’
As I speak I know that we will not part.
The bag and the memories
Eltersdorf, Autumn 1525
Limbs stiff from working. The cold, more intense by the day, freezes my fingers, still on yellow, creased paper: an elegant hand, not hard to read, despite the flickering candle-light and the stains of time.
To Master Thomas M�ntzer of Quedlinburg, most eminent teacher, pastor of the town of Allstedt.
The blessing of God, first of all, to him who carries the word of the Lord to the humble and bears the sword of Gideon against the iniquity surrounding us. Greetings, then, from a brother who has been able to listen to the oratory of the Master in person, without being able to leave the prison of codes and parchments to which fate has confined him.
The man who has travelled the labyrinth of these corridors in search of the ultimate meaning of the Scriptures knows how sombre and sad it can be when we lose sight of that meaning. And as the days move by, one after the other, along with the awareness, the preserve of the few, along with the brilliance of the Word, obscured by a thousand Spalatins who make a fortress of these mazes and, with these books, build walls around the privilege of the princes. If by some spell our lives were swapped around, and I found myself in Allstedt with the peasants and the miners, and you found yourself with your ear pressed to these doors, listening to the many intrigues hatched on behalf of charity and the love of God, I am sure it would not be long before you wrote inciting me to take a whip to those traitors to the faith.Therefore I have no doubt that you will understand the reason that leads me to take up my pen.
The words of the apostle are confirmed: ‘For the mystery of lawlessness is already at work, but only until the one who now restrains it is removed’ (2 Th 2, 7). The sacrilegious alliance between the impious governors and the false prophets is mustering its troops, the pressure of great events is spurring the elect to keep the faith safe, and prepare to use any means to defend it.
The man of iniquity, the apostate, sits in the temple of God, and it is from there that he spreads his false doctrine. Thus, one of the Medici of Florence, Giulio, is seated upon the throne of Rome, as Pope Clement. He is sure to continue the destruction of Christ in His name, like most of his predecessors.
Rome examines its own navel, and cannot see beyond. It is deaf to the trumpets which, all around, are heralding the siege. Immersed in the sin that dulls the senses, it will be unable to oppose who can bring� fresh impetus and the light of the Holy Spirit to the way of the reformation of the Church.
And this is the great crux, Master Thomas: who will carry the sword that will run the wicked� through?
Brother Martin has shown his true face as a soldier of the princes, a wretched role long concealed. So Luther will not be the one to bring the Gospel to the common man, not the man who has exiled Karlstadt and each day receives homage from the great of the earth. The purpose of the German rulers is clearly apparent. It is not faith that fills their hearts and guides their actions, but their greed for gain. They arrogate to themselves the glory and adoration of the Highest one, and turn their subjects into miserable idolaters.
Only the words that I had the privilege of hearing from your mouth have restored hope to this heart, along with the news that reaches us from Allstedt. The
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