John Gutenberg, First Master Printer

Here the young man stood up and drank. Gutenberg meanwhile had with a pensive air been shaking his head and his grey locks, his eyes fixed before him. “Claude,” said he, “thou speakest according to thy years, and thy imagination. Life has no shadows for thee, thy dreams have not yet been destroyed. It is different with me. Claude, believe what I say, I see the time coming when these little mobile letters, which I have discovered, will become living realities; like so many serpents, they will climb the walls of our Cathedrals, even up to the clock towers, and they will be as gnawing worms to the old thrones of our Emperors. Yes, these moveable letters contain also a Satanic element, which thou dost not perceive. I have created, I have invented them, but they cannot be otherwise than destructive. I have lighted a torch, but let the wind and the storm arise, and shake their wings, and I warn them that the flame will suddenly become a devouring fire, consuming everything around it.”

Claude did not quite understand the sense in which the old prophet uttered his denunciation. His survey only skimmed over the surface of events, without seeking to penetrate beyond, and he was incapable of foreseeing the inevitable consequences, the fearful re-actions which must ensue from so wonderful a discovery. Full of love for his old master, he repeated incessantly his congratulations to the old man for the imperishable monument he had raised to his own name. This even Gutenberg would not admit. He said, “My art is not like any other art; a painter sketches his figures on the canvas, and he perfects the creation of his thought; the same with the poet, the engraver, the architect, and the musician; we, on the contrary, with our presses, are only the servants of others; printing is only an instrument for thinkers. Of what importance are the fingers which regulate the letters in a book? Of what importance is the hand which works the press, which arranges the pages and the leaves, which gives a visible form to the action of the mind? Will the reader ask who has printed the book? He will only care to know the name of him who has conceived it, written it, which name will shine in large letters on the first page, while we the typographers will only appear at the end in a modest paragraph, hardly perceptible, dragged as it were in tow by the author on his journey to immortality.”

The Master rose and moved towards the window; outside a gentle breeze whispered to the river, to the town, and to the surrounding country, in the stillness of the night. Gutenberg looked up with emotion to the brilliant starlight of the heavens. “Lord,” murmured he, in a low voice, “thou knowest the aim which I have sought, and the nature of my work, may it all end in Thee; let my poor life, my name, be forgotten, if such be thy will; let them be lost in the vastness of thy Infinity!” He spoke, and disappeared in the recess of the room, where he was in the habit of seeking repose for the night. Claude watched him with surprise; but Lawrence Beildech, who had not listened to his beloved Master without being moved to tears, said softly to the young man, “He is often so – he has the heart of a child – may the Almighty have him in His holy keeping!”

Chapter IV

How two Crosiers being engaged in a quarrel, the poor people of Maïence were the sufferers, and Master John Gutenberg in particular

Perhaps, Reader, you may have happened to witness a threatening storm enclosing the hills around with its gloomy wings, while the valley below sleeps carelessly in the last rays of a lingering sun. The labourers are standing outside their doors contemplating their harvest with satisfied looks, the blue smoke curls as it rises lightly from the chimneys; all is calm and stillness, when in one hour, only one short hour… Spare me, Reader, the representation of such a picture.

Never in the worst times of religious warfare had the city of Maïence such a day to endure as that of the 23rd of October, 1462. In the calendar it is named Simon and Jude; and one asks oneself if the people of Maïence should mark it with a black cross in sign of mourning, as a day really worthy of its patron Judas, or with a red cross in commemoration of the blood which flowed in their city, and the flames which bursting out on all sides consumed their houses. The prince Adolfe of Nassau, in order to compel the Archbishop Diether to let go his hold, conceived the somewhat novel expedient, (especially so, when we reflect that it emanated from the brain of a spiritual shepherd,) of smoking his competitor out, as bees are smoked in order to oblige them to vacate their hives. It might have been about four hours after midnight when a hundred of the boldest and most enterprising of the followers of Adolfe of Nassau scaled the wall of the city at its highest point; for, exactly on account of its height, and, above all, of its position on the edge of the river, which bathed its feet, it was thought peculiarly safe, and the sentinels, which were posted elsewhere, were considered unnecessary at that spot.

To leap into the city, to put to the edge of the sword the soldiers who kept the gates, to set fire to the nearest houses, whose inhabitants they massacred, was for the invaders the work of a moment. When day began to dawn the flames of these incendiary fires lighted up the streets, the alarm bells rang, the houses resounded with cries and lamentations, as well as with the noise of arms; a memorable spectacle of anguish which lasted from the first rays of the morning until the evening sun retired to rest, bathed as it were in blood, behind the waters of the Rhine. The people defended themselves in a manner worthy of free citizens; but, when they beheld 400 of their most valiant colleagues lying dead in the streets, when they saw, above all, women, young girls, and children, throwing themselves with clasped hands in the midst of the combatants, praying for mercy from the soldiers of Prince Adolfe, who were occupied in setting fire to the houses which they had first pillaged, then the poor Maïençois threw away their arms in despair, and, as so many sheep overtaken by a storm, they allowed themselves to be conducted, without resistance, to the Grand Square of the archiepiscopal city. There it was announced to them, on the part of their new prince, that from that moment they were at liberty to depart, themselves, and all who belonged to them, wherever they pleased, but that they must leave the town without delay by any one of its numerous gates.

I wish, Reader, you could peruse, as I have done, the ancient Chronicles of the city of Maïence. You would therein perceive how the old chroniclers vie with one another in lamenting unanimously over this bloody page of the history of their city. You would read the heartrending description of the misery of so many unfortunate creatures, who, mortally wounded and stricken, saw themselves banished from their hearths without the means of existence, leaving behind them desolation and despair. How noble and just, on the other hand, is the anger of these same chroniclers when they speak of certain cunning citizens, who, having made a secret alliance with the Prince of Nassau, now that there was nothing more to fear, openly paraded their assurance in the midst of the general mourning. You might also read how one of these honest historians in his simplicity expresses indignation against the Archbishop Diether, who, aroused from his morning slumber by the alarm bell, immediately clothes himself in disguise to prevent the people from recognizing him! Forgetting, in his haste, his ring, his cross, and his crosier, he slides down by a cord from one of the castle windows, and jumping into a small boat, the worthy Pastor, not deigning to cast one look behind him on his poor city in flames, follows the course of the stream without delay. But what then! O, simple chronicler, does that astonish thee, as if the circumstance were in any way extraordinary, or had any right to surprise thee!

Amid this multitude escaping for its life our chief business is to look around us, and inquire, in the universal misery, what has become of our old acquaintances.

At the Great St. Humbert the partizans of the Prince of Nassau, we must confess, terribly abused the right of might; they threw the presses out of the windows, when they fell on the pavements and were broken; in the Rue des Savetiers it literally rained alphabets, the plunderers broke open all the chests and boxes, without finding anything to satisfy their avidity. Of what avail was it that Master Fust swore, with clasped hands, that he possessed nothing, that he had given up everything; when he threatened to complain to his brother, the Burgomaster, the richest goldsmith of the city, and one who stood well in the books of the Archbishop Adolfe, the soldiers answered by bursts of laughter; and on finding neither gold nor silver to carry off, their unlettered hands seized the most valuable impressions, which they found piled up under the framework of the roof. “This is not good to eat,” said a long-bearded soldier of the Palatinate, “it would be too indigestible, but after all it may serve as litter for the horses;” and, so saying, he threw six large in-folios into his great sack, where they disappeared as in a gulph.

The scene was even still more distressing at the house of Peter Schoeffer, who, at the same time that he tried to inspire his new helpmate with a little courage, entered into a violent dispute with one of his fierce visitors. Dame Christine had retired to the furthest end of her apartments, where on her knees, before her prie-Dieu, she implored the Virgin mother of God. Schoeffer was running first into the court-yard, trying to arrest the progress of the pillage, and then returning to his wife bringing scraps of information, which, alas! were anything but re-assuring. At this fearful moment an impudent dragoon forced his way suddenly into the apartment of Dame Christine, and looked around with savage and avaricious eyes to see what he could seize upon. The poor woman offered trembling all she possessed in necklaces and jewels. “Not enough,” said the robber, in a brutal tone, and with both hands he began diving into the chests. At the bottom of one of them the Psalter of 1457 suddenly attracted the eyes of the soldier; less, Reader, as you will readily believe, on account of its beautiful type, than for its silver clasps, which excited the avarice of the Vandal. With a smile on his lips he drew out the volume. Dame Christine, who valued the Psalter, not only as her book of devotion, but, also, as the wedding gift of her husband, tried to dispute the possession of it with the invader. At the cries of his wife Schoeffer rushed into the room, snatched the book from the hands of the soldier, who defended himself, and in trying to strike Schoeffer with the heel of his heavy boot, he wounded him with his spur. Schoeffer struggled, and seizing the prie-Dieu hurled it with such force in the face of his enemy that he was covered with blood, and began swearing and howling most piteously. His fellow-soldiers ran to his assistance; they drove Schoeffer and Christine out of their house, a merciless hand collected the cinders and live charcoal, which were in the hearth of the common sitting-room, and in a few moments the flames bursting forth from every issue enveloped the entire building with their fiery tongues, as if the malediction of the little Parisian against the house of the printer was to be accomplished without loss of time.

The family of Fust, assembled in the court of the Great St. Humbert, was sending up its cries to Heaven, and uttering useless imprecations against the plunderers, who, after having pillaged and burned the house, left the smoking ruins, to tempt fortune by proceeding further in the work of destruction. It will not be difficult to understand that the efforts of the workmen, who knew not to which Saint to vow themselves, whether they ought to try and extinguish the fire, or rather attempt to save what the flames had spared, should have remained without much result. Neither did the neighbours, in the midst of the general confusion, feel much disposed to come to the aid of a man who by his haughtiness in prosperity had estranged them from him. Fust, not knowing what he was about, tore his hair and threw it into the flames, which were consuming his property; the Burgomaster, his brother, too much occupied with the general distress, or, which is more probable, completely absorbed in the care of his own concerns, found no time to think of his own flesh and blood. In every part of this wretched city, enemies, plunderers, and massacrers, were alone to be seen; the gates were closed, and the entrances to private houses carefully barricaded from the inside. Fust, incapable of giving any orders, stood motionless watching the flames, while Christine, in despair, hid her face in her husband’s bosom. The workmen wandered here and there, with hands clasped, and high above their heads the fire crackled and sparkled, the beams were swallowed up in the blaze, and in the air paper ashes flew about, tossed in malicious play by the fresh breeze of the morning.

To describe the impression produced by this scene would be almost impossible. It was solitude and silence, annihilation and despair in the midst of turmoil and clamour. At this moment a new personage appeared on the scene. “May God and His mercy be with you all, poor unfortunate creatures!” said the new comer, in a tone of compassion at once deep and sincere. If we add that instead of thanks the speaker was only answered by cold recognitions, and met by eyes from whence flashed hatred and defiance, every one will guess that it was John Gutenberg, who, with his knapsack on his back, his pilgrim’s staff in his hand, and his doublet tucked up for a journey, had just entered the court-yard of the Great St. Humbert.

It was indeed he, and Fust, glad to find some one on whom to vent his anger, hurled these words at him, accompanied by looks as fiery as the flames which were consuming his house. “Man – what brings you here? Are you come to feast your eyes on the sight of our misery, or, perhaps, to beg your bread from beggars?” The person so offensively addressed, contented himself with shaking his head gently, and without even looking at Schoeffer, who at the sight of Gutenberg had turned away, taking Dame Christine with him. “I imagined,” said the old man, “that at such a time of universal suffering you would, doubtless, have forgotten our little former quarrels, and if I come it is to learn your fate, anxious to hold out a hand of succour, if such is in my power. I have already lost all recollection that we parted in anger, and hope that I may still have the means of showing my interest in a house in which I worked for so many years with you and your son-in-law.” Fust, for all answer, replied, “You see there is nothing left to be done here, or to be carried away, we are all ruined like yourself.”

“Master,” replied Gutenberg, “let there be an end of all petty jealousy. I am not in a better condition than you are; the partisans of Nassau have done what they listed at the Syndic’s house; my presses are broken, my alphabets scattered, nothing is left but the bare house and walls.”

Schoeffer had in the meanwhile re-entered, and, taking part in the conversation, said with bitterness to his former patron, “Well, most worthy sir, you, it appears to me, have only cause for increased tranquillity; is it not well known that you possess no actual right in your presses, and that you only continue your profession at the risk and peril of the Syndic?” At this unfeeling speech one might have seen a vivid colour mount up in the face of the old man. “It is true, it is as you say,” replied he; “but who ought to know better than yourself the cause of my misfortunes? I do not mourn over the little I may have lost, my only regret is to see my work interrupted; time and bodily strength are wearing away, two things of which an old man may well be covetous, that is my sorrow, for who knows when, or where, the Master may find a place in which to set up once more his compositor’s table?”

“Do you still think then,” said Fust, in a depressed tone, “that it will ever be possible to re-establish a printing-house? Yours and mine were the two first, believe me, they will be the two last. Every one will avoid in future the revival of a profession on which the curse of heaven so evidently rests. You and I to be so completely ruined! O cursed be the hour when you first crossed my threshold, when by enticing words you persuaded me to join in the work of Satan! May it pass away for ever, and vanish like the smoke issuing from my house, and come to nothing, like this calcined plank on which rested the first printing press!”

A loud crash served as an accompaniment to this terrible wish. The yard, and the street in which it stood were buried under the fragments, the dust, the cinders, and the burning timber. One workman disappeared under the avalanche, the others ran away with loud cries. Schoeffer carried his weeping wife far from this scene of desolation; the old Fust and Gutenberg remained alone in the midst of the ruin. The former with both hands over his eyes had fallen almost to the ground on his trembling knees. Gutenberg, on the contrary, as if renewed with the vigour of youth, stood erect, and laying his hand on the shoulder of his antagonist, he addressed the following words to him, in a tone of inspired prophecy. “O you of little faith, who think because the temple is in flames that the Divinity must also burn! That which happens now happens justly, for your labour has been far less for the sake of your art, and its progress, than for your own personal interest. I tell you, Master Fust, this art, of which you despair, shall be eternal as the word which created it is great in the sight of men; and it is as little likely to perish in the flames of your dwelling, as the heavens are likely to perish which you see stretched out so far above you, in their blue stillness and beauty! Behold, Master Fust, your workshop is empty, your workmen are dispersed – reflect on what I say! Fate, sitting above your head bowed down with grief, scatters the ashes of your books to the four winds of heaven; well, by the very fact of the suspension of our work, and banishment from our hearths and homes, our art will extend itself to the farthest corners of the world. Let then all burn that can burn, O Fust! The art of printing is a Phœnix which will rise from its ashes and cover the whole world with its wings!”

Chapter V

The Lord Archbishop Adolfe of Nassau having bethought him of John Gutenberg, the printer, causes a search to be made for him by one of his horsemen, who finds him in a fisherman’s hut

In the district of the Rheingau, on the right-hand side of the great river, some miles below Maïence, is a little town to which, in the present day, is given two different names, according to fancy; it is sometimes called Eltvil or Elfeld. When those smoking Leviathans, the steamboats, pass roaring before the modest houses of Eltvil, the sound of the silvery bell has scarcely echoed in the air, when a little boat, carrying a white and red flag, is unmoored and cuts swiftly through the water. It arrives alongside, the passengers mount the large vessel, but the tourists, strutting up and down the deck, scarcely condescend to cast even a vacant look on their new fellow-travellers. And why should they? Of what importance to the fair daughter of Albion, reclining on one of the benches, is the graceful Rheingau peasant, who, with her basket on her arm, and her knitting in her hand, mounts silently the side of the boat, and after addressing her parting adieus to her friends, male and female, whom she leaves on the bank, goes quietly and takes her seat on a rustic wooden stool.

It is at Eltvil that we shall take up again the thread of our story, which was so abruptly broken by the incendiary of Maïence. Three years have passed since that event, three cruel years to the poor inhabitants of the Rhine country. Gutenberg has resumed, as before, his pilgrim’s staff. Claude Musny walks in front in charge of the light baggage of the little caravan, and this joyous child of a light-hearted nation, thanks to his gaiety, which neither privations nor contrarieties can reach, has it often in his power to bring back moments of forgetfulness and serenity to the old man. Lawrence Beildech, inseparable from his master, walks by his side, sometimes supporting Gutenberg’s faltering steps, and when necessary coming to the assistance of his failing eyesight.

What a caravan, and what a journey; and what thoughts must have passed through the mind of the chief actor and guide when he reflected, especially on that first occasion of his flight in this very same direction – a flight then resembling that of an eagle soaring from its nest! Beildech carefully avoided every word which might recal those days to his Master; but one evening when our travellers had halted on a hill overlooking the Rhine, Gutenberg broke the general silence by saying, with much sadness, “Dost thou recollect, my good Beildech, how in the year – 20 we travelled this road together? I proudly on horseback, a boasting young aristocrat, just like all the rest, thinking myself quite equal to the Furstenberg, the Volksberg, the Gelthuss, the Humbert, canst thou not see me now with my fine floating feather fastened to my velvet cap, and my slashed doublet covered with an abundance of ribbon? Ah, Lawrence, how handsome it was! and how merrily we passed by on the road heavily mounted cavaliers sent by the abbots and the citizens, so desirous were we to be the first to salute the Emperor Rupert; and, afterwards, when we were far away, how the people of Maïence came and attacked our houses…”

“Ah! those were good old times,” said Beildech, sighing and shaking his head.

“Yes, thou art right; they were happy times,” replied Gutenberg. “Alas! when will our weary pilgrimage and our sorrows come to an end?” At these words, which fell with some bitterness from his lips, the noble old man fixed his gaze on the glorious setting sun, whose brilliant rays surrounded his thinly covered head, and his pale sorrow-stricken face. One might have said that they wished to form a luminous martyr’s crown around him.

Gutenberg did not speak without reason of his trials, for during three successive years the little caravan had wandered along the Rhine, now descending, now re-mounting it, and our three travellers had arrived in this manner as far as Strasburg, where Gutenberg wished to remain, hoping in that city to meet with old friends. He knocked on all sides, but found only closed hearts or fastened doors. No one cared about typography; the sacking of Maïence had dispersed crowds of fugitive workmen to all parts of the Rhine country, and printers were in such especial abundance, that there seemed no opening anywhere for the old man. To place himself under the orders of another was what the Master could not make up his mind to do. Gutenberg wished for his own workshop, and to work at his own hours, even though his purse should remain scantily furnished.

At the end of three years the peregrinations of the caravan came to an abrupt termination; a termination which it certainly did not seek or desire. Gutenberg fell suddenly dangerously ill. It was with difficulty that his companions procured him shelter and a lodging with a boatman, who possessed, on the left bank of the Rhine, opposite the rich and powerful convent of Erbach, a hut where he earned a scanty livelihood, partly by fishing, partly by the profits he made in carrying over pilgrims in his little boat to the monastery. It was here that Gutenberg was obliged to remain, overcome by sickness. The place suited him inasmuch as it was removed from the haunts of men, which the old man, soured by grief and depressed by misfortune, endeavoured, every day more and more, to avoid; the hut, which was buried in the vine-branches, overlooked the Rhine, whose waters almost bathed its threshold.

It is thus that, in the year of Our Lord Jesus 1465, John Gutenberg, the inventor of the art of printing, was laid up under this wretched roof, a prey to sickness, forgotten and forsaken by mankind. The most trying season of the year had found him still travelling; fatigue, illness, grief, disappointment of every kind, had overpowered the old man, and it was on this account that his two companions watched with so much anxiety and anguish by the side of their master’s pallet. They shared between them the care of the sufferer, and while Claude Musny went about here and there offering his services to the vine-dressers, and the monks of the convent, Beildech remained in attendance on his master. Occasionally, at rare intervals, a monk of Erbach, expert in the art of healing, crossed the water, at the earnest entreaty of Claude, to visit the infirm old man, whose ordinary physician was a shepherd of the neighbourhood, who, by means of potions and prayers, vainly endeavoured to restore vitality to an existence already worn out.