The Flower Inn

copyright holder unknown2For men who work day and night, driven by the passion of their dreams, there is no time for the entertainments enjoyed by others.  For those employed in the behemoth projects underway at Froben’s presses, there are no pastimes such as the game of Loggats, in which a ball or some cheese-shaped object is thrown toward a group of quilles or skittles to knock them over.

figuresgamblingnatavern1670David Teniers

How ironic that the peasants, after their days of hard labor, have strength and time to play such games, but we men of supposed learning fall into the chairs before our suppers, almost too weary to eat.  And our minds, turned to stew by the exertions that have occupied them, have not capacity for chess or Karnöffel, such as the old men play in the corners of the inn.

16th century type--Moyen Canon RomainAlthough Froben’s hospitality knows no bounds, and he would feed us every meal, a few of us stroll each evening to the Flower Inn.  We seek to get away from the noise of the presses that, at any time, can be heard beyond and behind and beneath every wall, every thought.  We need to breathe something other than the scents of paper and ink and metal, though we bring those scents with us, seeped as they are into our clothes and hair.

We drop into our chairs, our eyes dry and weary, and I am so grateful to the stout alewife who sets the repast before us that I could kiss her workworn hand.

Pellicanus by Asper--Kunsthaus ZürichAn evening here reminds me of those pleasant evenings spent at the Hog’s Snout with Zell, Fabri, Hubmaier, and the young monk, Michael.  My friend, Conradus Pellicanus, reminds me of Michael, the coarse wool of his monk’s habit contrasting with our finer academic robes, just as Michael’s did. Conrad is a Franciscan, but not only does he labor beside us on the editing and annotating, but he frequently eats with us at the inn, saying that he has missed the evening meal at the monastery.  I think he is a monk in heart, more than in rules and rituals, and for that I respect him all the more.

Bruno Amerbach, the oldest brother, is always here, though retiring Basilius is content to return to zum Kaiserstuh and eat with the servants.  Bruno reminds me of Matthew Zell, ready always to laugh, to twinkle his eyes at the women, to talk to every man who passes the table, whether peasant or burgher.  And having grown up in Basel, the son of a prominent printer, Bruno knows everyone.

And so, as if to reflect those days at the Hog’s Snout, I am joined by a quiet studious monk and a gregarious fellow.  And then, just as he was wont to do at the Hog’s Snout, Fabri arrives, always late, in a swirl of robes.

tongue2But there, the similarity ends.  For at the Hog’s Snout, we poor scholars dined on tripe or tongue, if we were lucky.  And there, to stretch her poor rations out to feed more starving students, the cook adulterated her flour with sawdust.

But here!  The Flower Inn offers accommodations for the traveler and even some local boarders. Bruno often says he may move here to get away from the presses at zum Kaiserstuh.  To this, Conrad raises his eyebrows, as if to say the innkeeper’s daughters should steer clear.  Bruno’s reputation from his Paris university days has followed him home.

Cheesemarket, BaselSo, since they serve travelers of note and local respectable citizens, the victuals at the Flower Inn are several grades higher than what held my body and soul together at the Hog’s Snout.  Tonight, we had a cheese tart filled with cheese that was not too rotten, eggs, and butter.  We had morels baked in wine and saffron.  And we had goose, stuffed with onions, quinces, pears and bacon, and roasted on a spit.  And wine!  A thing not even allowed to us as university students.

By the Muses!  And the best thing, Gentle Reader, is that we all had money to pay without having to pool our Pfennigs, or borrow, or fail to eat our fill because we had not been able to afford all the food we needed.  I thought of how Fabri had been so poor as a young urchin that he had swept the ale house just for the crumbs.  You should see him now.  Filling out around the middle just like a bishop!

Ah Basel.

goose

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Published in: on October 7, 2012 at 6:21 am  Leave a Comment  
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Bruchsal–Part 1

December 1512

Like most choices, my decision to leave the university and move to Bruchsal to work for the Bishop has not resulted in a perfect situation, though it is nice to eat with the sons of nobility and to wear robes equal to the ones Zasius provides Fabri.

But my position entails far more than I expected.  The Bishop sends me on frequent errands, (hence, the lateness of this post), and the duties are beyond the scope of my abilities.  The Bishop believes that, since I studied briefly under Zasius, I should be able to answer legal questions.  Nothing could be farther from the truth, and I am frequently dispatching a courier on a fast horse to appeal to Fabri for advice.  And, too, I hate litigation and conflicts, and so, do not enter into argumentation with the passion it requires.

Then, there are the endless chapter meetings in which the daily business of the foundation is discussed.  I care not what arrangements should be made for the upcoming feast or at what hour this or that should occur.  But my position requires me to attend.  So there I sit, as stuck as a pig on a spit, but at least the pig has a purpose.

The people who attend our services are woefully ignorant and superstitious, particularly with regard to ghosts, demons, witches, and saints.  This results from several sources.  The clergy are poorly trained and often superstitious themselves, and they encourage the superstitions of the people in order to keep the common herd content and keep everything in stat quo.  While the people are not to blame that they were raised with superstitions, they cling to them tenaciously, for is it not much easier to simply follow a superstitious formula than to undergo a transformation of heart?

So, you may have surmised from all this, Gentle Reader, that I find myself at odds with several of the clergy.  They accuse me of stirring up the populace, for some find my lessons refreshing and authentic, but some cling to their old thinking, and so the congregation is divided.  How I shocked them last Sunday when I answered that, no, the sight of an icon does not protect one from sudden death for the rest of the day.  Does not experience itself teach this?

Hubmaier writes that discussion among the people is always to be desired, as it opens minds.  But truly, I feel that I am having little positive effect.

I am besieged by a mass of trivial duties, and one would surmise that I am too busy to think.  But I do think.  In my solitude, I find myself revisiting troubling questions that go all the way back to my childhood and my father’s affinity for John Wycliffe.

Is Christ really Present in the Eucharist?  I don’t know.  And yet, in my position, I declare my belief in that doctrine every time I say Mass.

I have no one with whom to share these concerns—dangerous as they are.  Oh how I miss Hubmaier and Zell and the lively discussions we had over our ale at the Hog’s Snout.  How I miss Fabri’s unwavering logic.  And the innocent wisdom of the young monk Michael.

Bruchsal is an intellectual desert, and there are few here who can have—or who wish to have—an intelligent discussion about humanistic studies, languages, poetry, ethics, or anything else.  Again, preserve the status quo.  So, when I have a free moment, I seem to gravitate to solitary places where I spend the time brooding.

The one bright spot in the last several months was the recent visit of Conradus Pellicanus.  Although a Franciscan, Conradus leads all Germany in the study of Hebrew, though when he began to study, he had no grammar and no teacher.  But he taught himself the letters, and then Reuchlin lent him the grammar of Moses Kimhi, for Reuchlin is convinced that if one wishes to find the truth in Hebrew, one must follow the grammatical and exegetical tradition of the medieval rabbis.

In 1501, Conradus published the first Hebrew grammar in any European language, which was most helpful to Reuchlin when he later began to publish his works.  (Reuchlin’s Augenspiegel has been suppressed, Conradus told me, thanks to the efforts of that idiot, Pfefferkorn.  Let them try to take my copy.)

Conradus is a model of how a man can educate himself in any subject if he only be willing to study and make the effort to do all that he can.  He tells me that in Basel, there is a converted Jew from Spain living with the Amerbachs and teaching Hebrew.  I have asked the Bishop for permission to make the trip to Basel to meet this Jew.

Many are studying the New Testament in Greek, but few can read the Old Testament in its original language or understand the tradition from which it came.  This is due to a dearth of study material and to the suspicion and hatred of anything Jewish.  A great tragedy.

Jewish scholars wearing pointed hats are suckled by their wetnurse, the Devil’s pig. Earliest extant anti-Semetic broadside. 1475

But I, Capito, find Hebrew fascinating, both for its own knowledge and for the light that it throws on the Bible.  If I could pursue Hebrew studies, my time here in Bruchsal might not seem so devoid of purpose.  So, I go to Basel to meet this Jew.  And we shall see what will be.

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