JOHN GUTENBERG,
_First Master Printer,_
His Acts, and most remarkable Discourses,
and his Death.
FROM THE GERMAN,
BY C. O. W.
JOHN GUTENBERG,
_First Master Printer,_
His Acts, and most remarkable Discourses,
and his Death.
FROM THE GERMAN,
BY C. W.
LONDON:
TRÜBNER AND CO.
60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1860.
_Only One Hundred Copies Printed._
CONTENTS.
Page
CHAPTER I. As how John Fust, master printer in the city of
Maïence, gave his daughter Christine to wife to Peter
Schoeffer his partner, and what came of it 3
CHAPTER II. What John Gutenberg, master printer, said, and
what he did, while Peter Schoeffer was taking to wife the
demoiselle Christine; all which should interest the reader 27
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 49
CHAPTER IV. How two Crosiers being engaged in a quarrel, the
poor people of Maïence were the sufferers, and Master John
Gutenberg in particular 69
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 88
CHAPTER VI. Death of John Gutenberg. Reader, pray for the
repose of his soul: his poor remains sleep in an unknown
tomb 108
JOHN GUTENBERG.
CHAPTER I.
_As how John Fust, master printer in the city of Maïence, gave
his daughter Christine to wife to Peter Schoeffer his partner,
and what came of it._
A wedding! how much joy is contained in that word! but even more in the
thing itself! You, however, who live in these days, can hardly form
an idea of what a wedding was in the good old times, for you possess
only the shadow, and even that is of the palest hue. Guests, among
whom the husband and the minister appear dressed in black from head to
foot, a large room furnished in the modern style, a very prosaic square
table, on which, after the marriage contract is signed, the repast is
served up, the whole accompanied with the stalest and most common-place
compliments, the coldest ceremonies.... No, no! a fig for your modern
weddings!
Reader, you ought to have found yourself at the appointed hour at the
great St. Humbert at Maïence, in the street now called La Rue des
Savetiers, and which then bore the name of St. Quentin, for that which
I relate to you happened in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and
sixty-one, before Maïence became a federal fortress. That was indeed a
wedding in the true sense of the word! A grand, a noble wedding! At the
moment when the clock struck twelve, the procession, attired in most
superb garments, came out of the church of St. Quentin, and, having
turned the corner of the Rue des Savetiers, took the road to the house
of the great St. Humbert. All along the route it was accompanied by the
joyous acclamations of the crowd; citizens, their wives and daughters,
opened their small casements, and put out their heads to gaze, and the
little boys in the street maliciously ran behind the wedding guests,
trying to jeer and to mock at the bridegroom, as is still the custom in
these days--one, indeed, of the only customs left us of olden times.
The sun shed his brightest and warmest rays on the house of the great
St. Humbert, for it was on the 14th day of August that Christine Fust,
the worthy daughter of the printer John Fust, espoused her father’s
partner, Peter Schoeffer of Gernsheim. On that day, too, the house of
the printer was open to all comers; those presses, generally so black
and so mysterious, were now crowned with flowers; the screws, the
levers, the timber, groaned no longer under the brawny arms of the
workman, and the paper and parchment remained neglected in a corner.
All the inmates were gone to the church of St. Quentin to be present
at the marriage; the workmen, dressed in their finest clothes, stood
ranged in a goodly group around their chief, who held firmly aloft the
banner of the Corporation, ornamented with the Imperial Eagle. The
Burgomaster himself, Jacob Fust, a master goldsmith, brother of the
printer, and rich beyond belief, had come in person to do honour to the
wedding of his niece. And how can we find fault with the father of the
bride, who walked proudly at the head of the band, arm-in-arm with his
brother the grandee and the renowned goldsmith, if he cast now and then
on the assembled crowd looks in which disdain was somewhat mingled. It
is true that he smiled more benignly at the windows from whence certain
silvery voices were heard to cry out as he passed, “We wish you much
happiness, Master Fust!” Or again, “May peace and a blessing rest on
the house of the printer!”
To speak truly, it must be confessed that the couple who had just been
united were not in their first youth, and if the bridegroom had nothing
in common with Adonis or Apollo, the bride on her side was far from
representing that type of beauty which the ancients have bequeathed
to us, and which may still be seen in the gallery of the Medici. Let
not this surprise you, reader! Peter Schoeffer in 1449 was already
renowned in the Academy of Paris for his skill in caligraphy; he had
even then rendered great services to Master Fust, who chose him for
his son-in-law; so you perceive that at the time of which we are
speaking there was no longer any question of youth or sprightliness for
Schoeffer. Christine, on her part, had no doubt chosen her husband for
his moral qualities; she had declared herself ready to bestow her hand
on the homeless stranger on the day on which he, who was then only her
father’s workman, should lay at her feet, reposing on a velvet cushion,
a copy of the admirable Psalter of the year 1457. Yes, it was not
until then that Christine consented to surrender her hand to that of
Schoeffer--to that hand which had designed the initials of the Psalter,
which had illuminated them in such brilliant colours, and had arranged
the beautiful types, the ink of which, it is maliciously said, still
clung to his fingers more or less.
The betrothal dated from the year 1457; but, as the father had
insisted on proving the character and the talent of his workman,
he had made it a condition that the two volumes of the great Latin
Bible should be completed before the fulfilment of the marriage. On
St. John’s day, 1462, the finishing touch was put to the work. Peter
Schoeffer wrote upon the last page to the effect that the task was
ended; he printed his father-in-law’s arms alongside, and on the
following 14th of August the book was exposed to the public, at the
same time that the marriage was announced; John Fust slyly remarking
that he brought on that day two treasures to light, the one conjointly
with Schoeffer, the other he generously made over to him.
To the two treasures were allotted their separate place of honour.
Christine dazzled the eyes of the public, robed in rich crimson velvet,
such as was seldom worn in those days by citizens’ daughters. Her
little white wreath was attached to her hair by a string of Venetian
pearls, presented on that very morning by her uncle the Burgomaster,
and it must be allowed the pearls became her well. The Bible, on its
part, had its silver clasps well rubbed and polished, and, being
placed on a table, it shone, to the edification and admiration of all
beholders.
If at the end of the table where the Burgomaster presided, dividing the
wedding guests on his right and left, there reigned a certain degree of
solemnity, it was made up for at the lower end, round the long board
prepared for the workmen, where the most noisy and expansive gaiety
prevailed. That patriarchal custom which required that the head of the
family, after having tasted of a dish, should join in a prayer with all
the guests, that custom, at the time of which we speak, had even in
the richest families fallen into disuse, only when, as on the present
occasion, a dignitary happened to be at table, a special gravity was
observed, and a great decorum maintained. “Noblesse oblige,” says the
proverb, so we must not be surprised if the Burgomaster, instead of
taking part in the joyous hilarity of his relatives, and especially of
his workmen, looked around him with anxious and pensive eyes. The cares
of government clouded his countenance, and occasionally wrinkled his
fine lofty brow.
In truth, alarming days were hovering over the good city of Maïence.
Two crosiers were clashing rudely for precedence, both being
competitors for the Archi-episcopal throne; and, as generally happens
in such conflicts, the blows fell less heavily, and in less number,
on the backs of the actual combatants than on those of the victims
who were the objects of contest. A year previously the Archbishop
Dietrich d’Isembourg had been deprived of his see for failing in proper
respect towards his spiritual pastor, and Adolfe of Nassau, appointed
Archbishop in his room, was preparing seriously, arms in hand, to expel
a predecessor who seemed far from disposed to yield his post with a
good grace. All the Rhine country, the Palatinate, Bavaria, Würtemberg,
and even Brandenberg itself, had taken part in the quarrel, for one
side or the other; in the city of Maïence Dietrich d’Isembourg reckoned
partisans who were still holding office side by side with those who
secretly favoured the new order of things, and rivals and enemies met
together full of an animosity which they took but little pains to
dissimulate.
To this cause of dissension was added the quarrel between the citizens
and the nobles--a quarrel which dated forty years back, and was even
now far from being quelled; descendants of the emigrant families ran
about the town exciting the malcontents, they themselves only awaiting
an opportunity to regain, in the general confusion, the privileges
which they had lost.
These were the grave matters which pre-occupied the mind of the
Burgomaster of Maïence, the great Jacob Fust, and left him but little
leisure to think of anything but his cares at the wedding of his niece
Christine. Did a noisy _vivat_ make itself heard at the lower end
of the table, was a joyous song resounding, near the entrance door,
in honour of the newly-married couple, the Burgomaster would raise
himself anxiously on his great carved oaken arm-chair, and, commanding
silence, exclaim, throwing his head back, “These are sad times in
which we live;” and his brother the printer would echo his words,
throwing back his head in like manner. As for the bridegroom he was in
the height of good humour, for the pre-occupations of his uncle the
Burgomaster affected him but very slightly. “Eh! what then,” said he
to the assembled guests, “are we not here in our free city of Maïence,
under the protection of the pastoral staff of His Grace our Archbishop,
whom may God protect? Let my Lord of Nassau intrigue, and cabal as he
will, as long as the Rhine flows between him and us, as long as our
good walls defend us, we may laugh at his Grace; and moreover our art,
our beautiful art, does it not flourish more and more every year? Have
we not five good presses in the workshop? Have we not fifty vigorous
arms employed in our service? Come, come, my gracious uncle, come,
worthy father, put away your fears, and your scruples; fill up your
glasses, and second me when I drink to ‘the noble art of printing,’
with ‘three times three.’”
The guests responded to this appeal, and the noise of the _vivat_ had
scarcely subsided when a great disturbance was heard on the stairs
adjoining the banquet-room, and a confusion of voices and footsteps,
which seemed to indicate a quarrel. The host was about to rise and
go in person to the spot from whence the noise proceeded, to call
the disputants to order, when the door was suddenly thrown open. On
the threshold appeared two workmen, dragging a third individual by
his arms, and who, to judge from his age and appearance, was only an
apprentice; “Look, master,” said the eldest of the men, “here is a
fellow who dares to disturb your festival by coming even into your
house to abuse your art, and your noble trade.” “Yes, it is true,”
continued the second workman, “but it shall not be permitted, were I
never again to touch a type, or the cheek of a pretty maiden!”
“It is the Strasburger who lies!” exclaimed the young boy, making
vigorous efforts to free himself from the gripe of his accusers. “I
said not a word against you or your art; it is they, on the contrary,
who slandered your son-in-law, and even your daughter dame Christine;
and you see, master, that was more than I could bear, so my French
blood rebelled.” “Let peace be in this house,” replied Fust, in a
commanding tone; “and you Strasburger, who are the eldest, you speak
first, and let go your hold of the Parisian!”
“Master, we were down below there, sitting drinking our beer, as your
worshipful company, saving your presence, is now seated drinking your
wine; we sang, we drank, we laughed, not a soul among us thought
of quarrelling; suddenly, I had just delivered myself of a little
_bon-mot_, such as is not unusual at our German weddings--”
“Strasburger, what was that _bon-mot_? Come, out with it frankly!”
“I said,” replied the workman, hesitating, “I said--”
Here the Parisian, with the vivacity of a Frenchman, interrupted the
other, and repeated the _bon-mot_ in question--a witticism so strongly
seasoned, that, although it might be allowable at a country wedding, it
could not be repeated here without a breach of good manners.
This unexpected communication was received with a violent burst of
laughter from the male part of the company, including even the worthy
Burgomaster Jacob Fust, the bridegroom alone felt his anger rising,
and, having some difficulty in restraining himself, he bounded from his
seat, while the cheeks of his gentle better-half, Christine, became of
a deeper hue than the velvet of the dress she wore.
The Strasburger, emboldened by the success of his _bon-mot_, and by
the excellent reception it had met with, cast a look of triumphant
satisfaction on the little Parisian, who stood by speechless and
astounded. At this moment a bashful glance directed to him by dame
Christine, unseen by all the rest, rewarded him for his chivalrous
conduct. The old workman continued his harangue.
“Master, you see, it is on account of this innocent jest that the
fellow has made this disturbance; he pretended that the honour of your
house was compromised, as well as that of the dame, your daughter,
which God defend from injury; he struck the table violently with
his fist, and, in fact, behaved like a madman. The Frankforter, who
stands there, tried by a paternal remonstrance to bring him to reason,
and we were once more seated behind our goblets, when, behold, the
young good-for-nothing recommences. We were drinking unanimously to
the health of the art of printing, that it might flourish at least
a thousand years, when all on a sudden, with his two little spindle
legs, he leaps on the table, upsets the goblets, and exclaims that we
must not forget him who first invented the trade, who was the author
of all our good fortune, him who revealed our beautiful art to the
world at large. We both opened our mouths wide--may the Lord forgive us
our sin--the wretch told us he was going to speak of the Holy Trinity,
when, behold, he calls out, with all the force of his lungs, ‘Long
live Gutenberg; long live Master Jean Gutenberg, of Maïence!’ The
Frankforter then seized him by one leg, I by the other, we dragged him
down from the table and brought him here. Now he stands before you, he
who was not ashamed in your own house to give all the honour and praise
to Gutenberg.” The Strasburger was silent. At the name of Gutenberg the
company became visibly embarrassed; the countenances of some of the
guests evinced an ironical pleasure. Peter Schoeffer, looking down,
busied himself awkwardly in readjusting the frill of his shirt, while
Master Fust, not caring particularly to meet the fiery eye of the
little Parisian, turned alternately from one workman to the other.
“Children,” replied he, after a moment’s painful pause, “children, you
are but simpletons after all; what is the use of troubling your heads,
on a day like this, with such nonsense? Leave Gutenberg to himself, and
let us enjoy in peace the good which God has given us!”
“Master,” exclaimed the little Frenchman, in a lofty tone, and
interrupting Fust, without hesitation, “that is what we have done; but
allow me to say one word, one only, with an honesty worthy of the great
art which we promote; if all this company thinks to-day of you, and of
Master Peter Schoeffer of Gernsheim, of his letter-founding, of his
skill in engraving, in illuminating, in printing, ought we, on that
account, to forget the man to whom we owe all that we now have? That
is why, I say it again, and may all those who feel as they ought to do,
say it after me, ‘Long live Gutenberg of Maïence, the first printer of
the world, long may he live!’”
With three bounds, and before he could be prevented, the audacious boy
reached the table, seized one of the filled wine-cups, and emptied it
at a draught. He had just laid it down again, with a crash, when Master
Fust, red with anger, pushed him roughly aside, “Fellow,” he exclaimed,
in a voice husky with vexation, “what have you done?” “What you should
have done instead of me,” replied the little Frenchman, without being
disconcerted, and becoming more calm in proportion that his master grew
more excited. “How! you have the audacity to come here and jeer us in
the presence of our guests, and, above all, in the presence of my
brother, the most worthy Burgomaster? To the door, to the door, with
the little brawler! Go, go, to your Gutenberg, see if his great presses
are at work; go, run through the streets and highways with your hero.
To the door with him, I say!” The printer threw a few pieces of small
money to the Parisian, and with an angry gesture pointed to the door.
“Master Fust,” replied the other, while collecting the coins which were
scattered over the floor, “if I pick up this money, it is to take what
you owe me; but I cannot go to Master Gutenberg, and that you know as
well as I do. Since the day he was obliged to give up his establishment
to you, for a debt of a hundred, or a couple of hundred dollars, which
you lent him at a high interest, he has not been in a position to set
up any press worth speaking of. So it always is in this world. To the
one, head and intelligence, to the other money!”
These last words were scarcely uttered, when a blow from a fist fell
on the cheek of the little Frenchman. Master John Fust, incapable
of further self-control, had struck the blow; and, if Schoeffer and
the two other workmen had not interfered, a serious scene might have
ensued, to the cost of the audacious boy, and in presence of the
guests. In an instant the whole assembly was in an uproar; Christine
took refuge, trembling, in the arms of her husband; the guests swore,
threatened, jeered, murmured; the workmen in the meanwhile had all
the trouble in the world to restrain the little Frenchman, whose
clear silvery voice called out through the crowd, “Master Fust, you
have no right to strike me! you had not the right even when I was in
your service, you have it still less now. I insist on your giving me
satisfaction!”
“Turn out the brawler, turn him out,” said the Burgomaster, in a solemn
tone; but the workmen tried in vain to execute the order.
“I shall go of my own accord, and alone,” said the little Parisian,
grumbling, “as soon as these German fists have loosened their hold of
me, not before. Yes, I shall go straight to Master Gutenberg, and if
he has no work to give me at his presses, well, I would rather untie
for him the strings of his shoes, than remain any longer in a house
where one is forbidden to speak out one’s thoughts in liberty. You,
Fust, you, Schoeffer, what would you be without that Gutenberg, whom
you have robbed of his goods! O, cursed be the false, the inhospitable
threshold! And you who live under this roof, take care lest the
hymeneal torch lighted this day change not into a burning flambeau,
which shall swallow up, under its wings of flame, the ruins of your
ill-gotten wealth!”
During this allocution, uttered with all the earnestness of passion,
the two workmen had dragged the boy towards the door, resisting all
the way. One kick, and he rolled down the staircase, carrying with
him the Frankforter and the Strasburger. Schoeffer shut the door on
the disputants, reconducted Christine, with much care and solicitude,
to her arm-chair, tried to calm his father-in-law, and succeeded in
restoring, at least, an appearance of calm to the festival, and to the
guests, who had been first surprised, and then alarmed, at this scene.