A Partner at the Confessional.--His Death.--Consequences.--A
Lawsuit.--Thieves.--Dangerous Curiosity.--Destruction of
Gutenberg’s Type.--Curious Testimonies.--Value of the Legal
Document.--Proof that Gutenberg was the Real Inventor.--The
Magistrate’s Just Judgment.--Public Excitement.
Poor Dritzhn! he was sadly lacking in the spirit which upheld
Gutenberg. He was a plain matter-of-fact man, with none of the
originator,--content to plant in the spring and reap in the autumn,
to work in time-worn paths; but dubious things that were years in
maturing, were not suited to his nature. The possibility of failure
poisoned his enjoyment, palsied his hand, and enfeebled his step. And
this, in 1438, after the short space of two years of suspense in the
firm.
Father Melchoir, his spiritual adviser, noticed the change.
“My son,” said he, “something troubles thee; confide the matter to me;
perhaps I can help thee.”
“I am indeed in trouble,” replied he, glad of a confidant, for the
secret and the doubt of success together wore on him. “I fear that I
shall be ruined as to worldly prospects.”
“I trust not: how is it, my son? From what source is the danger?”
“Alas, Father, gladly would I tell thee, but I have bound myself with
an oath not to reveal the secret.”
“But, my son, the Church does not recognize oaths in such a case. They
are null and void for all purposes whatsoever, and thou art free to
tell me all thy heart at the confessional: it is even thy solemn duty
to do so.”
Dritzhn was only too easily persuaded, and, despite his sacred oath,
told Father Melchoir of his connection with the firm.
“I have given hundreds of florins,” said he, “to bring out a hidden art
of writing, with the hope long ere this of selling books and getting
profits from my money. A few have been sold, but I have received no
dividend. Besides, I have earned but little by my trade for these two
long years; my time has been thrown away, and I am poorer than ever.”
“A very sad case!” said Father Melchoir, compassionately.
“This load is too heavy for me to bear,” lamented Dritzhn; “it will
kill me! To think of throwing away hundreds of florins on a doubtful
art, without in return getting back a single obolus![3] What can I do?”
[3] The very expression of Dritzhn at confessional.
“Get free from this secret league as soon as possible, and resume thy
trade.”
“I wish it could be done, Father, but I fear it cannot. If I leave the
firm, I shall lose all chance of getting back the money I have lent
them. I am in doubt what to do.”
“Leave it by all means!” cried Father Melchoir; “be sure no good will
come of their arts.”
“I will see what I can do,” said Dritzhn, and he rose to go. As he
entered the shop, he found Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe busy setting
new type for another work. It was a dictionary, called a “Catholicon.”
They were all eager in their toil, and spoke warmly of the ready sale
it would find, and the money it would bring in. Dritzhn, a little
encouraged, resumed his work with them, nor did he breathe a word of
his plan of leaving. It was too great a step to take hastily, although
he wished himself safely out of the partnership.
There was so much repairing of type to do, and so many unlooked-for
hinderances, that the book was delayed, and 1439 came round before it
was finished, although Gutenberg was meanwhile steadily improving his
art.
At this point of time, the autumn of 1439, just when they were about
realizing their hopes in issuing the “Catholicon,” an event occurred
which threw everything into confusion. This was the sudden death of
Andreas Dritzhn. If ever the adversary hindered an enterprise, it
was the art of printing; he had doubtless reasons of his own for
multiplying obstacles.
Accordingly the death of Andreas was the pretext; and directly George
and Nicholas, brothers of the deceased, two sturdy jogging Germans, who
never harmed a fly, on arriving home from Andreas’s funeral, demanded
of Gutenberg, Hielman, and Riffe to be admitted to the partnership!
“Very good,” said Gutenberg; “if we can find it in the contract, it
shall be done.” Then, producing the document, he read:--
“ART. 2. If any one of the partners shall die during the copartnership,
the survivors shall pay to his heirs the sum of one hundred florins,
in consideration of which the effects shall become the property of the
surviving partners.”
“Nay, gentlemen, you cannot become partners, but we will pay you
what is due as the heirs of Andreas Dritzhn.” Then, looking over the
accounts of the firm, he added, “Your brother is indebted to us in the
sum of eighty-five florins; we will pay you the remaining fifteen,
which will balance accounts.”
George and Nicholas rejected the offer with disdain, and, hastening
away, conferred with each other as to what they should do. Two strong
principles were at work in their hearts,--avarice and curiosity. From
some few hints which Andreas had dropped while living, George and
Nicholas were as much excited about the hidden arts of Gutenberg as we
covetous moderns are with a chance at a rich vein in a gold mine; and
they determined to try a suit at law, and if possible become members of
the secret league.
This was in the autumn, and was peculiarly grievous to the inventor.
The lawsuit consumed his time, thwarted his plans, and there was great
danger that the secrets of his art would become public. The protection
of the patent offices was then unknown. No inventor could put in a
_caveat_ to hinder the encroachments of trespassers. The lawsuit had
bruited abroad that Gutenberg & Co. had a secret art, which, like the
philosopher’s stone, turned everything into gold; and curiosity, on
tip-toe, used every device to get a peep at the wonder. Gutenberg’s
work was at an end. It took all his time to attend the courts, and
watch his shop, that no one might steal his art. It required double
diligence to do the last, as the shop was in Andreas’s house. Despite
his cautions to Hielman and Riffe, one day, in his absence, George
and Nicholas managed to take from the shop a part of the printing
apparatus. Gutenberg then gave orders to his servants to convey
secretly to his house a printing-press and a quantity of letters cut
in wood. The theft was a source of great anxiety to him, as he feared
that the secret was out. The careful thieves, however, safely hid their
booty, and lisped not a word.
At length it became evident to Gutenberg--such was the pitch to which
curiosity had risen--that every vestige of the noble art must be
destroyed. It was not safe even to hide it in his own house.
“Take the _stucke_ from the forms,” said he to his associates, “and
break them up in my sight, that none of them may remain perfect.”
“What, all our labor?” cried Hielman; “here we’ve been at work these
three years!”
“Never mind,” replied Gutenberg; “break them up, or some one will steal
our art, and we shall be ruined!” and with that they set to work with
their hammers and mallets, and the _stucke_ was soon demolished. His
precious type lay in the dust, and still the lawsuit was lacerating his
sensitive mind.