_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!”