John Gutenberg, First Master Printer

The second person whom we introduced was named Dr. Humery. He was Syndic of the free city of Maïence, and a wise man, if ever there was one, and well versed in the knowledge of all that was right and just. The chronicles say that even in a state of blindness he could have distinguished black from white, and white from black – a science which has completely escaped the numerous successors of the Syndic Humery! He called himself the patron of Gutenberg in the year 1455, when a sentence of the tribunal of Maïence, having forced the poor printer to give up his workshop to John Fust his creditor, Gutenberg, his heart overflowing with resentment against his native town, fled to Strasburg; but finding that he succeeded no better there than elsewhere, he soon returned to his own country. While Master John was seeking some resting-place where he might pursue his art, it was the Syndic Humery who advanced the seventy crowns which Gutenberg required to set up his new presses, and who provided him with the quarters which we have described. “On account of which,” said the convention, “the above named Master John is held to continue his labours at the risk and the peril of Humery.”

“Consider,” said the disinterested Syndic, “that you are no longer young; I wish to save you from all further risk of getting into trouble. Continue your work on my account, so that what you do, shall be mine by an equitable payment, but, on the other hand, let it be understood that I am likewise responsible for your losses; and above all, Master Gutenberg, beware of your old tricks!”

Gutenberg said gratefully Yes and Amen to all that was proposed to him, but his heart was broken. He neither asked nor wished for anything but to be allowed to cultivate his art, that well-beloved art, to which he had consecrated the earliest, the best days of his life. In the absence of children, which had been denied to his old age, he desired at least to play with his metallic characters, black to the outward eye, but full of the attractive force of affection to the printer. So it happened that Gutenberg took up his abode at the back of the Syndic’s house, working with his press as far removed as possible from the little windows, before which, as soon as it was dusk, he hastened to fasten the shutters. Reader, if you ask me a reason for this peculiarity, here is one which may account for it. From the windows of the house of the Syndic Humery you might see a little old smoky building, which, by a caprice of fortune, happened to be exactly the birthplace and cradle of the ancient race of the Gutenberg (zum guten Berg), a noble stock, of the existence of which the great typographer had been obliged to inform strangers, in the place where he invented the art of printing. Who can tell? Perhaps the eyes of the old man could not reconcile themselves to the sight of the balcony, where he had played as a child, from the table where he stood arranging his letters.

In the present day the proprietors of the Casino have pitched their tents in the yard of the building where Gutenberg lived, and, in default of other proofs, an inscription says, on the part of the natives of Maïence, that it was assuredly there that stood the house of their immortal countryman.

As for the very humane Dr. Humery, when he had looked over Gutenberg’s shoulder for about a minute, he said, with a jerk of his head, “It seems to me, worthy Master John, that during the last week your work has made very little progress.” Gutenberg made no answer, but a vivid colour, which I can only compare to the brightness of the setting sun on the glaciers, flushed the old man’s cheeks. Humery continued: “Under pretext that you could not agree with them, you have discharged two of your best workmen.” “That is true, gracious Doctor; they printed according to the modern fashion, without drawing a string at each line; in such a manner how was it possible to accomplish anything really good?” “But,” replied Humery, “you must have seen that the Bible which Fust has just edited is a magnificent piece of workmanship, and you must confess yourself that it much surpasses your Katholicon, the last and the only work which has issued from your press.”

At these words, Gutenberg, without answering, placed a marker in his in-folio, shut it up, tied up his bags which contained his letters, and put them away in the drawer of his table, with the frame containing the unfinished page; he then washed his hands, and began pacing up and down his room. “Now you have made him angry,” whispered Beildech to the Syndic, “look to yourself to make your peace with him.” Upon which the faithful servant went out slamming the door after him, the latch falling noisily into the staple.

The Syndic took the arm of Gutenberg kindly. “Master, do not be vexed with me if I now and then say a word which may doubtless appear rather harsh to you, but which I speak from my heart. See how many hours you spend in dreaming, in devising means to perfect your art, and in the meanwhile hands more active than yours rob you of your discoveries. Peter Schoeffer, for instance, has he not made a fortune with his impressions? and he has secured a rich wife into the bargain. Besides,” continued the Syndic, while the other maintained an obstinate silence, walking all the time, with long strides, backwards and forwards in his workshop, “besides, as you grow in years, your temper becomes so whimsical and touchy that it is next to impossible not to lose patience with you. Recollect all the law-suits, all the quarrels, which have disturbed your younger days, and, as we are speaking freely to one another, tell me what have you gained by keeping your art secret, to such an excess even that you only work with bolted doors, and you forbid your workmen to loiter in the streets, for fear they should be tempted to divulge your secret? These are no longer similar times to those when you came from Strasburg, and when you printed your first Donat; it was then allowable to make a mystery of your discovery, but now that Fust and Schoeffer have publicly established a workshop at the Great St. Humbert, with workmen and apprentices from all parts of the world, when such towns of Germany as Strasburg, Bamberg, and Frankfort, and Holland are hastening to reap what you have sown, one asks oneself of what use it is to keep your art concealed, as if it were the philosopher’s stone. This mystery, instead of serving your purposes, can only be of use to your enemies and further their interests!” Here the wise Syndic Humery was silent, awaiting the impression that so eloquent a discourse would certainly produce on his interlocutor, who until now had never uttered a word. Gutenberg had taken down his cloak from the peg where it hung, and, having covered his head with his black velvet cap, he contented himself with saying to the Syndic, while he looked fixedly at him, “There exists an old proverb which says that many fools are capable of asking more questions in a breath than a wise man can answer in a whole day.” Thereupon Gutenberg, without adding another word, passed before the Syndic, bowing coldly, and was going out at the door, when he turned round, “Besides, Herr Syndic, I here repeat once more that I am not, neither do I call myself Master Gutenberg; learned Doctor, I am Herr Gutenberg, son and descendant of an ancient noble family, and that you ought to know better than most people.” Upon which the old man disappeared, leaving the Syndic Humery alone in the workshop.

Unhappy man! what bitterness must have filled thy heart, when enveloped in thy cloak, both arms crossed over thy weary breast, thou camest forth alone in the deserted streets of Maïence! Thou didst revolve in thy mind, doubtless, the mortifications thou hadst experienced in thy native town, thou didst think of those for whom thou hadst worked, and who now trampled on thee! Thy star was on the decline.

That very morning John Gutenberg had seen a copy of the magnificent Bible recently edited by Fust and Schoeffer, and, in spite of the secret pride of the printer, he could not deny to himself that his pupils had surpassed him. Gutenberg belonged to that class of men of genius, or choice spirits, destined by Providence to conceive the grandest ideas, to attain the most wonderful discoveries, but who are crippled in the details of execution, and incapable of drawing any material profit from their discoveries. Peter Schoeffer, on the contrary, reared in Paris, and trained to the intrigues of life, was, thanks to the facility of his conception, just the man to seize the idea of another, and to turn it to his own profit. Fust, now his father-in-law, was wonderfully useful to Schoeffer by his practical skill in business, and so we shall be easily believed when we assert that our two intruders had not much difficulty in excluding from their partnership the poor old inventor. From henceforward the sole masters of their trade, they conducted it in a manner infinitely lucrative to themselves.

Gutenberg found this out ere long. In the year of our Lord 1460, seeing his Katholicon, finished, before him, he examined it, and as he compared in his mind the meagre, ill-formed characters with the beautiful type of the Psalter of Fust and Schoeffer, his soul was bowed down with an overwhelming sense of inferiority, and on that account he omitted to put his name in great letters at the end of his work, as the others had done. He contented himself with adding on the last page the following modest postscript: – “This book has been printed with the assistance of the Most High, who by one stroke of His hand opens the mouths of babes, and who often deigns to reveal to the humble that which He hides from the wise.” Then he added – “The whole was executed in the good city of Maïence, which forms a part of the glorious German nation, which it has pleased the goodness of God to distinguish by the light of His spirit, and the gift of His grace, above many other nations of the earth.” A pious and touching record from a son to his adoptive mother! grander, and above all more patriotic than that Roman pride which forbid that even after death the mortal remains should be restored to an ungrateful country!

If the Syndic reproached Gutenberg with making an unnecessary mystery of his labours, the effort being useless, herein lay the cause. Gutenberg had always professed that he never would make a trade of his art. “Have I then,” said he, “created a new corporation, among the many others, only that I may see the ancient escutcheon of my ancestors suspended side by side with the vulgarest ensigns at the doors of taverns, and of abbeys? My art belongs to me as much as to the rest of the world; let it remain the property of intelligence, and only be practised by those who have been initiated in it. Let others, if they will, place themselves on a rank with the tailor, who cuts my doublet, and the shoemaker, who sews the leather of my shoes, what I require is something above that – it is the constant improvement of my art, it is an independent labour, for which neither my name nor my ancestors need blush.”

Poor dreamer! thou knewest not what a serious practical thing a new discovery becomes to its author, and the more important it is, the more it conceals in its bosom hopes and riches for the future, the more quickly disappears, from the memory of men, the source from which it was derived. For human activity there exists no monopoly, no privileges; no sooner does a new idea break forth than it becomes public property; what the one finds, the other cultivates, he profits by it, he improves it, it is a streamlet of blood added to the general circulation. The name and the person of the solitary originator, whatever may be his efforts, will soon disappear; but all that has been denied to the man while living, becomes a debt to posterity, which is bound in gratitude to seek out and bring to light him who has contributed in so large a measure to art and science by his inventive genius. That is why, O Gutenberg, on that very spot where, perhaps, on that night thou wert looking up to heaven in deep sadness, feeling that thy star was on the wane, thy descendants see to-day thy bronze form casting its shadow before thee! May every one now gaze on thee, love and admire thee!

Chapter III

Who John Gutenberg found in his dwelling when he came back to it, and what conversation he there held with the little Parisian

When John Gutenberg returned he found in his humble room, besides his faithful Beildech, a young stranger awaiting him, who hastened, when the old man entered, to rise and salute him respectfully. Surprised at so late an hour of the night to see a stranger, Gutenberg asked him the motive of his visit. “Master,” replied the young man, “I come to do homage, through you, to the great art which you exercise.” Then he added a familiar saying, “May God bless the workshop to-day, to-morrow, and always! who cares for its size when it is so full of honour?” Gutenberg inclined his head good humouredly. In his present frame of mind so untimely a visit from an apprentice seemed somewhat inopportune to the old man; he thought himself bound, however, to bow, and to bestow a small denier in acknowledgment of the compliment. Typographers, then only very recently in existence, had nevertheless formed themselves into a separate body; such was the will of the master-workers in the middle ages. The card-makers, the engravers on wood, the image venders, had done the same for some time past in the Low Countries, in France, and in Germany, and it is only in this manner that we can account for the rapidity with which not only workshops, masters, and apprentices were established on the borders of the Rhine, and in Alsace, but that whole corporations appeared in Italy, France, Holland, and almost all over Europe.

Beildech having placed in the young man’s hand the proffered coin, the latter bent his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me, gracious Master,” he said to the old man, “but at present I am not on a walking tour, and if I come to you it is not so much to receive a gift as to ask for work, and to put at your disposal a pair of vigorous arms and a very light heart.”

The frank and familiar, but yet respectful manner, of the young stranger awakened Gutenberg’s attention. “Thou belongest not to these parts,” he said to him, “one can tell that by thy accent.” “No, Master, the blood which runs in my veins is only half German, my mother is French, and I was born in Paris. I was a card-maker until the noise of the profession of which you are the creator attracted me first to Strasburg, then to Maïence; until now I have worked for Master Fust, but, as he has just turned me away, I come to you.”

This information, as may be supposed, was not calculated to conciliate the favour of his new patron for the little Parisian. Gutenberg answered, not without a certain bitterness, “Boy, if thou dost expect to find a well-covered table with me, and a press as easy to manage as those which thou hast quitted, thou mayest find thyself mistaken. I do not feed my workmen, and as for work, I have at this moment but little to dispose of.”

The young man looked with a blank expression round the room. “Master Gutenberg,” said he, “you will do wrong to send me away thus discomfited, without an engagement. I know you have just dismissed two workmen who refused to submit to your orders, and that you want help in your workshop, weak as the help may be that I can offer you. Try me; I am the child of honest parents, my name is Claude Musny at your service, and I am the son of Gisquette Musny.”

Here Gutenberg’s attention seemed for a moment particularly arrested, less, perhaps, by the name of the son than by that of his mother; one might even have perceived a slight emotion passing over the face of the old man as he examined more closely the features of the young Frenchman. “Thou sayest thy mother’s name is Gisquette? Gisquette, what a lovely name!” repeated the old man, as if to himself; then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “Claude, I am very sorry, but the thing is impossible, I cannot employ thee.” “In that case adieu, Master Gutenberg, and may you prosper always, and for ever, according to the wish of the most devoted of your disciples!” At these words the little Frenchman seized the hand of the old man and kissed it with much fervour, before Gutenberg had time to withdraw it.

Beildech, who during this interview had been preparing his master’s humble couch for the night, hazarded timidly a remonstrance as he took the cloak from Gutenberg’s shoulders. “Master Gutenberg, you ought not to have dismissed the young man in that manner; he appeared to me a good little fellow, and had he unloosed his tongue to you as he did to me, I am sure you would not have sent him away, for let me tell you it is owing to you that the poor lad is now without bread.” “Eh! why did you not say so sooner?” “Dare one ever speak to you in the presence of a stranger?” replied the attendant to his excited master; upon which he related in a few words the story of the dismissal from Fust, as he had just heard it from the little Frenchman himself. Gutenberg was no sooner acquainted with the chain of circumstances than he rushed to the window with the little panes framed in lead, opened it, and began calling after the young stranger. He had not proceeded far, and his cheeks were red with emotion as in a moment’s time he re-appeared before the old man. Gutenberg passed his thin hand complacently through the fair locks surrounding the happy young face. “Thou art a naughty boy,” he said, “and more than that, thou art a simpleton for not having told me all that thou hast suffered on my account from those tradesmen!”

“Master, you were a stranger to me, and besides, what I did was less in honour of you than of your noble art, of which you are the sole inventor. Was it necessary to come here and boast, in order to win your good will? Be sure I should never have related what I did to that famulus there if it had not been to beguile over weariness, and to kill the time, while we were both waiting your return.”

The naïve candour of the young Parisian completely conquered the heart of Gutenberg, and although midnight had long since struck, he told Beildech to bring a jug of wine; he sat down and desired his new apprentice to do the same. “For to-night you must, at any rate, remain here, all the taverns are now closed, and we will manage as well as we can. Beildech, make up a bed for the lad as you think best, but, above all, let us have quickly something to drink! That idle talk of the Syndic has stirred my bile, and if we drink later than usual we shall only sleep the better for it, and to-morrow being a holiday we need not be at the press at peep of day.”

So the master and apprentice sat side by side, clinking their goblets, and drinking to the health and prosperity of the art of printing. Old Beildech was obliged also to take his share, for said Gutenberg, “He, too, deserves well of me, and of the great art of typography. Was it not he who saved my presses in the wicked quarrel which I had with Dritzehn, and his heirs, when they all tried to trample on me, and would have forced my secret from me for a bit of bread? Believe me, my son, I have endured much, and heaved many a sigh, ere I reached my present position. Ah! when the little Herr Gutenberg came into the world, they did not sing the song they ought to have sung around his cradle, that would have been that he would wander from town to town, with a pack upon his back, practising his poor trade.”

At this forlorn picture, Claude could not help laughing. “Master,” said he to Gutenberg, “if the curiosity of a young man will not appear indiscreet, I should like to hear you relate how the first idea of your invention occurred to you?” At this question from the lad a grave and sad expression crossed the old man’s face; he laid his hand on his broad forehead, furrowed with wrinkles, and looking down into the depths of his goblet, he answered, “My friend, in this world whatever is best and noblest always comes alone, and of itself, without our being able to say from whence or how – so it was with the art which I pursue. The method of printing with boards as you do for cards, and as others do for books, ceased to satisfy me. The step from engraved boards to moveable types was comparatively easy. The ancients, with their wisdom, had already long since pointed out the way, but no attention had been paid to them. It was on looking one day at my signet ring, that I was led to think of using moveable types. I had amused myself with impressing on the soft wax the little pilgrim with his cockle-shells, which has always been the armorial bearing of the Gutenbergs of Maïence, and it was on seeing my coat-of-arms reproduced that it occurred to me one might cut letters in wood, or in stone, and afterwards print them. Claude, thou seest how far I still was from the goal, and yet even then light was breaking in upon me for the advancement of my own art, and of other branches connected with it. If thou knowest Strasburg, I lived at that time in the Faubourg St. Arbogaste; I will not tell thee the time and the trouble it took to achieve the manufacture of wooden blocks, how many attempts I made before I succeeded, and how many losses I sustained! One of the greatest difficulties, when I had formed my characters, was to print them. A press is apparently a very simple thing, without complication, and yet there is an abyss of separation between a press and the brush which was used in former days, that great pad of rag and of horse-hair, with which one could only print one side of a page at a time, and even that with great difficulty. It was one of my greatest vexations that I could not find a fit instrument to hold my little wooden letters. I could not manage to get the impression straight and even, and strong enough to produce the engraving without seeing my letters constantly break, and fall out of place. One day, as I was seated alone in my workshop, a world of ideas passed through my mind, without my being able to realize any one of them; I became prostrate with the sense of my own weakness, and a feeling of despair, at seeing myself incapable of success, took such possession of me that I suddenly rushed out of doors, like a madman. I required to breathe the pure air of heaven, and I wished to try if in the midst of quiet fields, and gentle scenes, I might, for a few moments, forget my grief. It happened to be just that beautiful autumn season when the hills and the gardens around Strasburg, far and near, swarm with vintagers, young men and women gathering the grapes. My son! man is corrupt from his earliest years, and his heart is full of wickedness. My soul was bursting with the blackest, vilest envy. At the sight of these poor, happy work-people, I said to myself, each has his own place under the sun, each knows what he has to do, and I – I alone, am condemned to be a useless, unemployed wanderer! At this very moment, as if the Almighty wished to punish me in his own way, for my blind rebellion, a load of grapes was thrown just before me, under the screw of the wine-press; the machine began working immediately for the vine-dresser. Ah! it was as if scales had suddenly fallen from my eyes. I ran, I flew to my workshop; I worked the whole night, in concert with my faithful Lawrence Beildech, and in the morning, when Aurora appeared on the horizon, lighting up my poor dwelling with her rays, I had before me a printing press, rough and shapeless it is true, but the discovery was made! Claude, thou mayest believe me when I say that I could also have behaved like that great mathematician, of whom I have read somewhere, who, jumping out of his bath where he had solved a problem, ran naked through the streets of his native city, exclaiming, ‘I have found it! I have found it!’ Some day, perhaps, thou mayest thyself experience these ecstasies, when, after having long wandered in darkness, suddenly light breaks in upon thee, a delirium seizes one, the sinner falls down on his knees to thank God, from whom proceeds all light, that God to whom we, the ungrateful children of earth, do not fear, in our ignorant pride, to aspire to an equality!”

Here Gutenberg clasping both hands round his mug, raised it to his lips, and drank a long draught. Claude had listened with naïve emotion to the relation of the old man, and when he had finishing speaking, Claude replied, in a tone of prophetic inspiration, “Master, you have discovered and accomplished a divine work, what are all arts in comparison of yours, with its incessant fecundity? No, no, do not take what I say as a piece of insipid flattery, but I can only liken your invention to an old fable which I saw represented in my joyous city of Paris, I think they called it a Mystery; there was a hero who if I recollect right was named Prometheus; he wished to steal fire from heaven, to bring down a spark of it to our cold gloomy earth. You have done as he did; may then your name, and your art, live for ever!”