_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!”
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!”