_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._
If you have not been spoiled, reader, by the sight of the fine rooms of
Messrs. Brockhaus and Hadnel, those _coryphées_ of the present day of
the art of typography, who draw off their books on Stanhope presses,
in frames of highly polished wood, fastened with bright iron screws,
perhaps you will not feel any repugnance to follow me into the low dark
abode to which I am about to introduce you. We enter. The night is mild
and beautiful, the moon’s silvery beams rest gently on the undulations
of the eternally flowing Rhine, a light breeze trembles through the
vine leaves, the deep shadows of the houses conceal here and there
the streets of old Maïence. But why should we occupy ourselves with
such matters? Did the old man with silver hair, with his head bending
over the table, and given up body and soul to his work, occupy himself
with them? Where were his workmen? They were out of doors enjoying
the beauty of the night, being rocked gently in small boats on the
river, or drinking in taverns, or standing at church doors saying soft
gallantries to their mistresses, and he the solitary, the indefatigable
workman, why did he take no rest? His inflamed eye-lids, his forehead
furrowed with wrinkles, his rounded back, showed how much he stood in
need of it.
A smoky lamp hung from the beam which divided the ceiling of the room
into two equal parts, and shed its feeble light on the table where
John Gutenberg was working. But beware, reader, of representing this
table to yourself as furnished with any of those perfect instruments
which are the improvements of modern days; with a case for the
letters, a _visorium_, a composing-stick, a galley, or a catch; it
was nothing more than a great oaken board, on which his letters were
placed in little woollen bags, ranged in alphabetical order; the form
in which they were to be disposed was in front of the artist, and at
his side, on a desk, roughly put together, reposed the heavy in-folio
which he used as a manuscript. Let the compositor of the present
day, who complains, often justly, of the illegible copy of the poet
or the philosopher, compare humbly his task with that of his great
predecessor! He was obliged first to select from his bags, to place
the letters with great delicacy, to turn back to the manuscript in
order to read it, and to recommence his labour incessantly until one
whole line, laboriously put together, had been ranged along a string;
if at this point his negligence, as a compositor, had permitted one
fault, he must needs unfasten the string, and recommence his work from
the beginning!
Miserable place as it was, there worked the first printer of the
world! A humble cradle which contained a giant! Poor, wretched house,
what a difference between it and those palaces which the disciples of
the great inventor have since built for themselves! The shutters of
Gutenberg’s room were hermetically closed, not one of the moon’s silver
rays could penetrate them; the smell of the printer’s ink, of the
oil, and the black smoke, made the close air of this poor apartment
still more oppressive; a painful stillness prevailed, disturbed only
by the metallic noise of the letters as they touched each other. But
I will not dwell any longer on this melancholy picture, in which you
might have seen the old man, whose stray white locks shaded his broad
forehead, whose feeble fingers could only slowly and with trembling
fulfil their task, whose knees tottered, and who whenever he turned
over the leaves of his manuscript was forced to wait a few seconds to
regain breath and strength. No, no, reader, think of Gutenberg rather
as you would doubtless like to see him, standing on his pedestal of
stone, in the centre of the square, in front of the Cathedral of
Maïence, one of the last achievements, but by no means one of the
happiest efforts, of the great Thorwaldsen.
John Gutenberg, in his humble workshop, turned round on hearing the
door behind him creak on its hinges. “You see, I knew it,” said one
of the new comers on entering, “there he is, still at work.” He to
whom these words were addressed shrugged his shoulders slightly, both
came forward, and the foremost, with his head respectfully uncovered,
approached Gutenberg, who gave his visitors a friendly greeting.
Addressing the second, “Will it please you, my dear Doctor,” he said,
“to look on for a few moments while I am at work? If so, take this
stool, and sit at your ease, as far at least as that is possible in my
humble abode. Beildech,” said he to the other, “did you take care to
fasten the latch as you came in?” “Yes, Master,” replied Beildech; “but
it must be close upon midnight, it is time for you to leave off work;
here you are still at your table; will you never learn to think of
yourself, and of those who love you?” At these words the old man, with
a gesture full of tenderness, took the hand of the speaker and pressed
it on his heart. Beildech was the only one who, through good fortune
and evil fortune, had invariably stood by Gutenberg, from the day when
the latter left the gates of his native town on horseback, to direct
his steps towards Strasburg; days of youth and of beauty.
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!