_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._
In the district of the Rheingau, on the right-hand side of the great
river, some miles below Maïence, is a little town to which, in the
present day, is given two different names, according to fancy; it is
sometimes called Eltvil or Elfeld. When those smoking Leviathans, the
steamboats, pass roaring before the modest houses of Eltvil, the sound
of the silvery bell has scarcely echoed in the air, when a little
boat, carrying a white and red flag, is unmoored and cuts swiftly
through the water. It arrives alongside, the passengers mount the large
vessel, but the tourists, strutting up and down the deck, scarcely
condescend to cast even a vacant look on their new fellow-travellers.
And why should they? Of what importance to the fair daughter of Albion,
reclining on one of the benches, is the graceful Rheingau peasant,
who, with her basket on her arm, and her knitting in her hand, mounts
silently the side of the boat, and after addressing her parting adieus
to her friends, male and female, whom she leaves on the bank, goes
quietly and takes her seat on a rustic wooden stool.
It is at Eltvil that we shall take up again the thread of our story,
which was so abruptly broken by the incendiary of Maïence. Three years
have passed since that event, three cruel years to the poor inhabitants
of the Rhine country. Gutenberg has resumed, as before, his pilgrim’s
staff. Claude Musny walks in front in charge of the light baggage of
the little caravan, and this joyous child of a light-hearted nation,
thanks to his gaiety, which neither privations nor contrarieties can
reach, has it often in his power to bring back moments of forgetfulness
and serenity to the old man. Lawrence Beildech, inseparable from his
master, walks by his side, sometimes supporting Gutenberg’s faltering
steps, and when necessary coming to the assistance of his failing
eyesight.
What a caravan, and what a journey; and what thoughts must have passed
through the mind of the chief actor and guide when he reflected,
especially on that first occasion of his flight in this very same
direction--a flight then resembling that of an eagle soaring from its
nest! Beildech carefully avoided every word which might recal those
days to his Master; but one evening when our travellers had halted on
a hill overlooking the Rhine, Gutenberg broke the general silence by
saying, with much sadness, “Dost thou recollect, my good Beildech,
how in the year --20 we travelled this road together? I proudly on
horseback, a boasting young aristocrat, just like all the rest,
thinking myself quite equal to the Furstenberg, the Volksberg, the
Gelthuss, the Humbert, canst thou not see me now with my fine floating
feather fastened to my velvet cap, and my slashed doublet covered with
an abundance of ribbon? Ah, Lawrence, how handsome it was! and how
merrily we passed by on the road heavily mounted cavaliers sent by the
abbots and the citizens, so desirous were we to be the first to salute
the Emperor Rupert; and, afterwards, when we were far away, how the
people of Maïence came and attacked our houses....”
“Ah! those were good old times,” said Beildech, sighing and shaking his
head.
“Yes, thou art right; they were happy times,” replied Gutenberg. “Alas!
when will our weary pilgrimage and our sorrows come to an end?” At
these words, which fell with some bitterness from his lips, the noble
old man fixed his gaze on the glorious setting sun, whose brilliant
rays surrounded his thinly covered head, and his pale sorrow-stricken
face. One might have said that they wished to form a luminous martyr’s
crown around him.
Gutenberg did not speak without reason of his trials, for during three
successive years the little caravan had wandered along the Rhine, now
descending, now re-mounting it, and our three travellers had arrived
in this manner as far as Strasburg, where Gutenberg wished to remain,
hoping in that city to meet with old friends. He knocked on all sides,
but found only closed hearts or fastened doors. No one cared about
typography; the sacking of Maïence had dispersed crowds of fugitive
workmen to all parts of the Rhine country, and printers were in such
especial abundance, that there seemed no opening anywhere for the
old man. To place himself under the orders of another was what the
Master could not make up his mind to do. Gutenberg wished for his own
workshop, and to work at his own hours, even though his purse should
remain scantily furnished.
At the end of three years the peregrinations of the caravan came
to an abrupt termination; a termination which it certainly did not
seek or desire. Gutenberg fell suddenly dangerously ill. It was with
difficulty that his companions procured him shelter and a lodging with
a boatman, who possessed, on the left bank of the Rhine, opposite the
rich and powerful convent of Erbach, a hut where he earned a scanty
livelihood, partly by fishing, partly by the profits he made in
carrying over pilgrims in his little boat to the monastery. It was here
that Gutenberg was obliged to remain, overcome by sickness. The place
suited him inasmuch as it was removed from the haunts of men, which
the old man, soured by grief and depressed by misfortune, endeavoured,
every day more and more, to avoid; the hut, which was buried in the
vine-branches, overlooked the Rhine, whose waters almost bathed its
threshold.
It is thus that, in the year of Our Lord Jesus 1465, John Gutenberg,
the inventor of the art of printing, was laid up under this wretched
roof, a prey to sickness, forgotten and forsaken by mankind. The most
trying season of the year had found him still travelling; fatigue,
illness, grief, disappointment of every kind, had overpowered the old
man, and it was on this account that his two companions watched with
so much anxiety and anguish by the side of their master’s pallet. They
shared between them the care of the sufferer, and while Claude Musny
went about here and there offering his services to the vine-dressers,
and the monks of the convent, Beildech remained in attendance on his
master. Occasionally, at rare intervals, a monk of Erbach, expert
in the art of healing, crossed the water, at the earnest entreaty of
Claude, to visit the infirm old man, whose ordinary physician was a
shepherd of the neighbourhood, who, by means of potions and prayers,
vainly endeavoured to restore vitality to an existence already worn out.
On one of the last evenings of the autumn of this same year, Beildech
and the young Frenchman sat by Gutenberg’s couch watching his restless
and feverish sleep. Outside, the night was dark and gloomy; the waters
of the Rhine, swollen by the rain, beat against the walls of the hut,
and a sharp wind which blew down in squalls from the hills shook the
framework of the miserable dwelling. The sick man had been suffering
all day; he complained of a burning heat in his head, especially in
his eyes, and Beildech had observed with uneasiness his uncertain and
hesitating hold of the porringer when put into his hand. Claude sat
silent at the foot of the bed, and every time that Gutenberg moved or
moaned the shepherd began muttering unintelligible prayers. Beildech
stood at the window listening to the noise of the river and the wailing
of the wind.
The hut when Gutenberg awoke was in profound darkness. In a faint voice
he asked for a light. Beildech went out and lighted a resinous torch,
which he placed in an iron ring in the wall, fastened there for the
purpose, and close to Gutenberg’s bed. The latter hearing the door
creak on its hinges lifted himself up. “A light--light!” said he; then
again, after a short pause, he added in an impatient tone, “Is there
then no one here who will condescend to grant the favour of a light to
an old man, to while away the tedious hours of darkness?”
Beildech, trembling from head to foot, drew the young Frenchman quickly
to the other side of the bed. “Beloved Master,” he said, “be so good as
to turn and to open your eyes, the torch is in its usual place.”
“I tell thee thou liest,” said Gutenberg angrily, “is not everything
here as dark as in a tomb? Claude, my son, answer me--where art thou?”
He whom he called was close to his master’s head, he shuddered as he
bent down towards him. “Here I am,” he said, in a low voice, taking
hold affectionately of his master’s hand; but the latter pushed him
away, and stretching out his arm towards the torch he laid hold of it,
and brought it close to his eyes. He could no longer see it!
With a cry of despair, and burying in his hands those eyes from which
the light was for ever shut out, Gutenberg threw himself back on his
pallet. “I understand you,” he said to his two companions, who were
sobbing aloud, “but I cannot see you. I smell the odour of the resin,
but its flame no longer penetrates the darkness which envelopes me. O
miserable man that I am! Alas, I am afflicted like Tobias, but Tobias
without a son!”
After the first burst of despair, silence once more reigned in the
hut. The shepherd, who, in this respect, much resembled the doctors of
our own days, when he was at a loss what more to do, slunk noiselessly
away. The young Frenchman, quite overcome with grief, was on his knees
by the side of the bed, while Beildech, the torch in his hand, held
it close to the eyes of the old man, as if he sought by this means to
restore the light which was quenched for ever.
Such was the picture presented by the interior of the hut, when the
sound of an approaching horse came suddenly to relieve the solitude of
our poor sufferers. Beildech was just opening the window to listen,
when the fisherman ushered in a horseman wet to the skin, and covered
with mud. “Here,” said the boatman, “behold him of whom you are in
search.”
The horseman bent his tall figure as he entered the low door of the
dwelling. “He whom I seek,” said he to Beildech, who advanced gloomily,
“is called John Gutenberg, and he is from Maïence.”
The old man, hearing his name pronounced by a stranger, sat up to
listen, and motioned to his attendant to be silent. His pride revolted
at the idea of being discovered in such an abode; turning towards the
door from whence the voice proceeded, he said rather roughly to the
horseman, “And who told you to come and seek that noble gentleman here
in this wretched hut? Pass on, my friend, and leave honest people to
rest in peace.”
“That is a pity,” said the cavalier, casting a doubtful look at the
sick man, “yes, it is a great pity that such good news should meet with
so rude a reception. He to whom my message is addressed will doubtless
receive me with more politeness.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“I think so at least,” said he, drawing from under his doublet a roll
of parchment. “Here is what I bring from our worthy Lord Archbishop--a
letter which could not fail to rejoice the old gentleman if I could
only put it into his hands. I have been for weeks on his track, and
only yesterday the reverend fathers of Erbach sent me here.”
At these words Lawrence and Claude, in whose face a sanguine curiosity
was clearly legible, approached the cavalier. “If you could make up
your mind,” said Lawrence, pointing silently to his master, “to leave
your message with us, I will answer for it, on my head, that it could
not fall into better hands, for the retreat of the noble John Gutenberg
is perfectly well known to us.” “Well then,” replied the horseman, who
was not slow to understand, “I agree to that readily,” and he placed
the scroll in the old man’s hands. “For my part I am glad to be at last
released from my troublesome commission, and if the boatman will take
me across the river to-night, I can at any rate reach Eltvil, where my
most gracious master, the Archbishop Adolfe, whom God preserve, has
fixed his residence.”
The spurs of the horseman were still resounding on the threshold
when Claude seized the scroll out of Gutenberg’s hands, and hastily
approaching the resinous torch, he took a rapid survey of the missive
from which hung, in a case, the great seal of wax of the Archbishop.
“Master,” cried he, falling on his knees, with a joyous exclamation,
“it is when our distress is at its height that our Lord is nearest to
us!” And his tears, which were no longer of sorrow but of joy, and his
kisses, covered the old man’s hands.
“Peace, peace, young scatter-brain!” said Gutenberg, who could,
however, with difficulty control his own emotion. “What can this
missive contain capable of thus exciting our little Frenchman?”
“Deliverance for you, O my Master!” repeated Claude, in a tone of
jubilee, and he gave the parchment back to Gutenberg, whose trembling
fingers wandered over the ribbon and the seal. Claude had forgotten
that the old man was no longer able to read it; Beildech was obliged
to recall the fact to him. Claude then retook the scroll, and began
deciphering with some difficulty, and many interruptions from the sobs
of Lawrence, this document, a precious relic, which we here re-produce
in the simple language of those times.
“_We Adolphe the elected Lord and installed Archbishop_ of Maïence,
do recognize by this present, that we have accepted, as useful and
agreeable to our person, the services rendered to us by our dear
and faithful John Gutenberg, that is why, excited to this act by
the especial grace of God, we have chosen and elected him for our
servant, worthy of forming one of our court. Not permitting ourselves,
nor wishing for the term of his life, to deny him our good offices;
hoping that for our service he may recover himself, we grant him each
year, when we clothe our community, vestments after the fashion of our
gentlemen; and shall cause to be given to him the dress of our court,
and every year twenty bushels of wheat, and two tuns of wine, for the
use of his household; and for that the said Gutenberg shall have no
temptation to sell or to give these away, the aforesaid bushels of
wheat and tuns of wine shall have free entrance, and exemption from
duty, in this our city of Maïence, for as many years as the said
Gutenberg shall live, and so long as he shall remain our servant. In
testimony whereof we despatch him this present.”
The scroll of parchment fell from the hands of the reader, and it was a
touching sight to see the old Lawrence pressing the right hand of his
beloved master, while, with uplifted face towards heaven, he murmured,
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!”
As for Gutenberg, pale and motionless on his pallet, a few stray tears
wandered down his cheeks on to his grizzled beard, but not a muscle of
his face, or a movement of his body, denoted that life still existed
within him; but when his two faithful companions tried each to lay hold
of one of his hands, he put them gently aside, sobs escaped him, and he
said, shaking his head, “It is too late, these eyes can no longer see
anything, they can only weep!”
We who have come into the world four centuries later, and who,
according to a pompous inscription, _aere per totam Europam collato_,
which signifies, by means of subscriptions raised throughout all
Europe, let monuments be erected upon monuments, at Maïence, at
Strasburg, at Gernsheim, at Haarlem, and Heaven knows where else, in
honour of the art and its inventor, why do we not rather enclose in
the pedestal of the statue a fragment of the parchment bearing the
old document? And thou, fair Reader, whose only thought is rapture at
the intellect diffused throughout the album of Gutenberg, and you,
successors and disciples of the great Master, who build palaces for
your printing-works, and lastly, you spectators who think that 10,000
crowns spent upon a festival ought not to weigh too heavily in the
budget of a town, recollect him who was the originator, and is still
the hero; he owed it to the bounty of a generous prince that he
received annually twenty bushels of wheat and two tuns of wine!
But here let us be silent, for, Reader, you doubtless recollect a
certain old proverb which says, “_Vieille chanson vieille histoire!_”