_Death of John Gutenberg. Reader, pray for the repose of his
soul: his poor remains sleep in an unknown tomb._
History, in transmitting to us the decree of Adolfe of Nassau, has
provided us with a proof of the liberality of this Prince of the
Church, but she remains silent when we inquire by what services
Gutenberg could have drawn upon himself such favours. Some authors
pretend that the old man, being a secret partisan of Nassau, had
assisted in the surprise of his native town; the solitude in which
Gutenberg lived, and his distaste for all political affairs, do not
allow us, for a moment, to entertain such a supposition. For our part
we would rather conclude that the Archbishop, after having taken
violent possession of the capital, bethought him of this one of its
children. Accident had doubtless brought back to the memory of the
prince the poor houseless inventor of an art which at that time was
making much noise. Why should we seek an explanation for that which
unaccounted for appears to me far nobler and more humane?
The Archbishop held his court at Eltvil. That town must have been more
thickly inhabited, and of more importance then than it is at present.
The great castle of Eltvil had not yet been the victim of the flames
of France, and the Archbishop Adolfe, not placing as yet entire
confidence in the hearts and fidelity of the sheep of his flock, had
hesitated to establish his residence in Maïence itself. It was then
towards Eltvil that John Gutenberg directed his steps, supported by
his faithful Claude, and accompanied by Lawrence Beildech. He was no
longer a wandering Belisarius; but he was not the less a poor blind
old man, whom the liberality of his prince had sought out too late,
and whose existence could not be re-animated by the tardy favours of a
court. Reader, spare me the recital of that scene where the sightless
old man entered the archiepiscopal residence to render his thanks in
person to his powerful patron. At the sight of that tall figure, so
cruelly bent with age and infirmities, the prelates, full to repletion
and florid with health, asked each other in low tones, “Is that then
the man who teaches the art of printing?” We do not consider that
these words convey any very lively or deep sympathy with the great
discoverer of so immense a work on the part of the wearers of stoles
and of armour. After so many trials and misfortunes, Heaven only
granted a few short years to the old man, wherein to enjoy his modest
competency. He appeared--forgive me, Reader, for the comparison, I
allow it is somewhat stale--like the setting sun bursting through a
veil of clouds before him, in order to disappear, a moment afterwards,
in solitary grandeur and majesty behind the distant hills. Gutenberg
could no longer see this fine sun rising and setting on the Rheingau,
but now and then, nevertheless, he wandered, guided by his two faithful
companions, to the banks of the great river, and sat down to listen
to its gentle undulation as it flowed. Few words now escaped his
lips; those lips, alas! which had been so steeped in bitterness that
they could scarcely taste the honey of his latter days, and under the
impression of great sorrow remained incessantly sealed.
It was thus that the year 1466 passed away to our three friends, who
still remained faithful to their retreat; the season of Spring had
begun to revive the earth with its first warm breath. Gutenberg, then
seventy years of age, was standing one morning at the window of the hut
while his young companion trained the vine-branches which covered the
wall of the humble abode like tapestry. Scraps of songs and ballads
followed each other merrily from the lips of the lively Parisian.
Gutenberg, probably, understood them but little; Claude’s clear voice,
however, pleased him.
At this juncture the young man heard himself called violently by his
master. He hastily put down his pruning-knife, and ran to the door of
the hut, where he found Gutenberg, who, by the help of his stick, was
trying to come to him. “Thy song,” said he, in a trembling voice, “thy
last song, repeat it to me.” Claude looked at his master with surprise,
and began to sing afresh--
_“Soir et matin, filles, n’allez follettes
“Quierre és gazons derraines violettes.”_
Gutenberg hardly gave the singer time to pronounce these few words when
he drew him violently towards him, and pressed him to his heart. “Young
man,” said he, “from whom hast thou learnt that song?” “My mother
taught it to me,” replied Claude, “in my childhood, while I played with
small quoits on the Place de Grève.” Here the old man remained for a
moment in deep thought; presently he said, “Seest thou, Claude, thou
art an honest lad, and by thy fidelity thou hast merited my confidence.
This song touched my heart, because it brought back to me the last
word, the last sound of the voice of one whom I loved, dearly loved;
since then how many years have passed away! I shall never hear that
voice again, alas! never as in days gone by!”
Gutenberg, overcome by his emotion, was silent, and it was as well,
perhaps, that he did not see the agitation in which his words had
thrown the young man. “Now, Claude,” said he, after a pause, “go,
return to thy vine, but thou must sing that song to me once every
evening, dost thou hear? Give me thy hand, child.” Claude held it out.
“Thou tremblest; tell me, what ails thee?” asked Gutenberg, in a tone
of mistrust, not uncommon to the blind. “Nothing, Master.” “But I will
know the reason of thy agitation; thy hand burns.” “Well, because you
tell me that you have confidence in me, and at the same time you hide
from me the cause of your grief!”
Claude had uttered these last words with anguish, almost in the tone
of a suppliant who hastens to seize the favourable moment. Gutenberg
turned away, and after a somewhat prolonged silence, he said, in a low
voice, to the young Frenchman--“Claude, a countrywoman of thine once
sang that song to me in bidding me adieu--a good girl, who had a noble
heart--her name was the same as thy mother’s; thou sayest thy mother’s
name is Gisquette.” The old man hid his face in his hands, while
Claude, falling at Gutenberg’s feet, embraced his knees, murmuring,
“My father, my father! Do you not guess? She who sang that song was my
mother!”
A cry escaped from Gutenberg; his stick fell from his hand; the
sightless eyes seemed to seek the face of the young man at his knees.
“It is false,” he said; “have pity on me--O tell me not an untruth!”
“By the quenched light of those eyes, which I love, by the heart of
Gisquette, I speak the truth. I am thy son, and she was my mother!”
Claude uttered these words with all the vivacity of a Frenchman.
Gutenberg answered not, his bosom heaved painfully--one could see the
struggle between mistrust and the wish to believe. “But why----” asked
he. “Father,” replied Claude, who perceived at once what was passing
in Gutenberg’s mind, “dost thou not yet understand the nature of my
mission, why I presented myself to thee, why I followed thee, how it
is that I have ended by loving thee as I do, even to adoration? And
dost thou not guess how I was bound by my mother, by a solemn oath,
never to utter a single word that could recall her to thy memory, until
thou thyself hadst in some manner named her?--‘Be, if it must be so,
his most humble attendant, for he is thy father; and if thou findest
Gutenberg in prosperity, which I pray Heaven he may be, and he has
forgotten the days at Aix-la-Chapelle, oh, do not invoke the shade of
poor Gisquette to place it between him and happiness! But if he is in
trouble he will of himself think of me; then fall at his feet, kiss the
ground he treads on, and say to him, Be comforted, it is _she_ who
sends thy son to thee!’”
“Enough, enough, by the Holy Saviour, enough!” cried Gutenberg,
straining in his arms the young man who still knelt before him. “Yes,
it is she herself! I recognize her in those words, my son! my child!”
A thunderbolt would not have separated those two men clasped together.
The old man, although unable to look upon the son who had been given
to him, uttered no complaint; his lips, his hands, his arms, were as
so many eyes to him. “Before I knew,” said Gutenberg, “the treasure
I possessed in thee, I recollect tracing in the frank and amiable
expression of thy face something of my Gisquette.”
When they had recovered themselves a little from their first emotion,
Gutenberg became sufficiently calm to speak to Claude of his mother.
He could not see the eyes of the young man raised to heaven, but, in
the outburst of grief with which he threw himself into his father’s
arms--“I understand,” he said; “she awaits me there--above!”
Lawrence Beildech, on his return from the fields, found the old man and
Claude still sitting happily side by side. “Lawrence,” cried Gutenberg,
whose step he had recognized, “Lawrence, I have found a son!”
Beildech received this information with much surprise, and Claude,
less to justify his allegations than to furnish a tangible proof to
the old servant, drew from his trunk a little polished metal mirror,
ornamented on one side with a figure sculptured on the border. “Tell
the master, Beildech, what figure it is you see behind this mirror.” “A
Holy Virgin, her heart pierced with three swords, carrying in her arms
the infant Jesus, crucified.” “And is there not engraved underneath,”
said Gutenberg, eagerly, “_Ecce mulier filium tuum?_ O give, give me
that mirror, it was my gift to Gisquette the first time I saw her, in
the square of the cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle,” and Gutenberg, seizing
this relic of happier days, pressed it to his lips.
The very hour when he placed this mirror in a beloved hand, the whole
of that period of his life came before Gutenberg at this moment; it
was a ray of sunshine lighting up for an instant the snow of the
glacier. A little later the old man related to his newly found son as
follows:--“It was in the year 1440, at the time when all Christian
Europe made a pilgrimage to the ancient and celebrated city of
Aix-la-Chapelle, a holy visit as it was called which was paid every
seven years to the wonderful relics of the cathedral, that I lived at
Strasburg in the Rue St. Arbogaste, my mind fully occupied with my art,
but not having yet succeeded in accomplishing anything worth speaking
of. At that time thou knowest, Lawrence, I lived somewhat poorly. For
a long while I had received no help from Maïence, and the heritage of
my forefathers was all exhausted in the various experiments which I
had made, and which I had hoped would turn to good account and place
me in a position to carry out my one idea. I was just in the meridian
of life, and it became necessary that I should follow a more lucrative
trade. I began polishing mirrors and stones; I engraved images and
ornaments on wood; and I associated myself with those Strasburgers who
afterwards treated me so ill, André Dritzehn, Heilmann, and others.
“A year or so might have elapsed since we commenced business together;
they furnished the funds, I supplied the implements, and taught the
trade to my partners to the best of my power. We promised ourselves a
rich harvest from our pilgrimage to Aix-la-Chapelle, where people were
arriving from all parts of the world.
“The French braggart with his page behind him smartly equipped, the
proud Spaniard, the beautiful veiled Venetian women, and others from
all parts of Italy. We naturally hoped to make much profit by our
merchandize. Another reason contributed to detach me from Strasburg. I
had been for some time betrothed to a young Alsatian named _Enel of the
iron gate_. I thought seriously of carrying her with me to my native
town, enamoured as I was of her black eyes and fine elastic figure;
Providence and the parents of Enel decided otherwise. I like to suppose
that she was innocent of the transaction, for she was an honest girl,
who loved me with all her heart, only, said malicious tongues, she
was somewhat frivolous in character, and more attached to the things
of this world than was quite consistent in a Christian, especially in
a German. Enel’s parents had nothing to say against my mode of life,
except that they could have wished my energies to be bestowed upon
some profession more worthy in their eyes, and they could not console
themselves when they saw me incessantly tied to my beloved workshop,
bending over my books, and only thinking of my experiments. The father
considered my tastes very vulgar, and said that, unless I altered for
the better, he, for his part, should not have much pleasure in giving
his daughter to an idle fellow, a dreamer like me. He was a rich man,
well-born, and much respected in Strasburg. It may easily be supposed
that from that day I never crossed his threshold. I had attained my
fortieth year in all honour and respectability, and I had no wish to
exchange my profession for that of a clerk, scratching for ever, like
a cat, with a pen in my hand. No, no, let others who like it undertake
that sort of trade!
“I felt some regret in renouncing the young girl, although time very
soon taught me that in fact she had never possessed a deep hold on my
affections; so this journey to Aix-la-Chapelle during the pilgrimage
seemed to me to happen very _à propos_. In the month of June,
Dritzehn, Heilmann, Voigt, Niffe, and I, started, accompanied with
two strong beasts of burden laden with our stones, our mirrors, and
our images of the saints. We were full of joyful anticipation and had
only one fear, that our horses were not in sufficient condition to
carry back the large stock of money which we calculated upon making at
Aix-la-Chapelle; we declined taking the route by water as we hoped to
exhibit a good deal of our merchandize along the road.
“Do not ask me to describe the crowd, the floating masses which we
found extending even beyond the walls of the holy city. My memory
cannot recall the scenes, which my eyes, now closed to the light,
witnessed in those days. Every street, every square, was crammed with
pilgrims, natives of the country or foreigners, nobles, and plebeians,
the healthy and the infirm. At night they encamped before the gates, in
little wooden huts, or under canvas ornamented with branches of pine,
from which gleamed thousands of lighted tapers. Early in the morning,
as soon as the saintly processions began to move, you should have
seen them pressing towards the doors of the Cathedral, to touch with
quivering lips the revered shrine, or to offer to the Virgin Mother of
God, the one a taper, the other a chalice, others only their tears,
and their silent prayers. When the bells had ceased ringing the shops
and the booths opened on all sides, then Jews and Christians vied with
each other in their cries. Quacks, ballad singers, foot-soldiers, might
be seen elbowing silken doublets, Cardinals’ hats, and the cloaks of
princes; the sick plunged their aching limbs into the hot springs;
those who thought themselves cured offered a silver heart, or a leg
of wax to the Virgin; fops walked in the crowd with their mistresses,
soldiers played with dice on their drums, monks, carrying the crucifix
and the banner, accompanied funeral processions, and here and there
might be seen an occasional mask. My head becomes bewildered even in
thinking of those things, and I seem to have again in my ears the
incessant uproar of that immense crowd. I was then in the full vigour
of my manhood, nothing discomposed me; on the contrary, I was ever
seeking fresh excitement. In the same manner in which a fish swims in
sparkling running water, so I rushed into the middle of this human
stream, looking into everything, shouting with those who shouted, and
those who obliged me to take my rapier in my hand were soon convinced
that the descendant of the nobles of Maïence was not making his first
essay in arms.
“I did not understand much about commerce, so at least said my
comrades; at night when we shared our profits it often appeared to me
that they had taken a tithe out of mine. I mentioned my suspicions,
for in fact it was necessary that I should get something out of the
purse, to enable me to live, and I had plenty of time to meditate on my
prospects, and to give myself up to work.
“I had been three days at Aix-la-Chapelle. As I stood one morning at
the booth where André Dritzehn exposed his mirrors”--(here, Reader,
as he stretched out his hands to touch Claude’s head, you might have
seen a faint colour reddening the cheeks of the old man,)--“among the
curious who surrounded us, admiring our mirrors polished like steel,
was a young girl, who, being suddenly pushed back rudely by the crowd,
had only time to cast one rapid glance at our treasures. Her eyes
pleased me so much that I said, ‘Try to come forward, little one.’
She did not seem to know that I was addressing her. I repeated my
invitation; she did not yet understand me; I tried to take her hand;
she drew it quickly away. ‘I am not a German,’ said she, blushing, ‘I
am French, from the Faubourg St. Antoine, Paris; if you happen ever to
have been there.’ I was obliged to confess, laughing, that I had not.
Although I did not understand much of the language spoken by the young
girl, I gathered sufficient to be able to answer her. ‘Pretty child,’
I said, ‘wilt thou not buy one of our mirrors?’ ‘Alas! no, sir.’ ‘Thou
art in the wrong there, when one has a pretty face like thine, one
ought to possess such a piece of furniture.’ Talking in this manner, I
placed my hand under her chin, and obliged her to lift up her exquisite
face, which till now had been held downwards. She looked at me with
her large eyes half supplicating, half reproachfully, then she tried
to disengage herself. I held her fast, and placing one of our best
mirrors before her, that very one now in your hand--‘Well,’ I said,
‘look then at yourself, little unbeliever.’ A cry of surprise escaped
her finely-cut mouth when she saw her blushing face reflected in the
polished metal; never before probably had the view been so complete;
her beauty seemed to strike her for the first time. I pressed her to
buy the mirror, she hesitated; one saw how much she wished to possess
it; but all at once she put it quickly down on the bench, ‘I will
not,’ she said, and suddenly disappeared in the crowd. I followed her.
Our stall was in the square of the Cathedral; I rejoined the fugitive
close to the church. ‘Why wilt thou not have it?’ ‘Sir--’ ‘Speak to me
without fear.’ ‘Because I have no money to pay for your mirror. Look!
here is a denier, the only one left; it is destined for the purchase of
two ivory hands, which my mother presents to the Virgin full of grace,
as a thank-offering for her cure.’
“The filial love of the young girl, which spoke even more eloquently in
her eyes than in her words, touched me deeply. I questioned her about
her mother, her country, and her name. She told me with simplicity
that her name was Gisquette, and that she came from the Faubourg St.
Antoine, in the great city of Paris, where I should certainly not have
gone in search of this little pure unspotted flower. She added that
a vow taken by her mother had brought them to Aix-la-Chapelle, with
her brother James, in order to present an offering to the Virgin, in
acknowledgment of her old mother’s wonderful cure.
“‘How dost thou expect to reach home?’ I then asked her; ‘how wilt thou
make the long journey, thou who art only a poor girl without means, for
in that denier which thou hast shown me consists thy whole fortune?’
‘Sir,’ replied she, with the careless gaiety of her nation, ‘I shall
go back as I came. Brother James is very clever; he can relate stories
on the road, he will sing tales of the Trouvères, and I shall accompany
him on my lute. In this manner we enter the convents, and the houses
of hospitality, of which, thank God and his saints, there is no want.
Brother James,’ said she, with a sister’s pride, ‘has already sung
here in Aix-la-Chapelle before great lords and princes, at home he is
well known in all the neighbourhood. Once when a grand mystery was
performed in the large Hall he acted the part of Mercury, and had on
his shoulders two large wings of gauze, which I made for him myself.
I assure you he looked very handsome, and recited his fine verses
beautifully.’
“Need I tell you, O my dear companions, how immediately my heart felt
attracted towards this young girl? I led her back to our booth, and
giving her the mirror which a moment before she had so coveted.--‘Take
it, my child,’ I said, ‘and keep it in remembrance of this hour, as
well as of the friend thou hast gained by thy filial piety.’ For some
time she refused to accept it, and as André, who kept the stall that
day, began reproaching me for giving away our goods, instead of selling
them, she returned me the mirror, saying, ‘Thank you, my kind sir! it
shall never be said that you were brought into trouble by the vanity of
a poor girl.’
“If the avaricious speech and sentiment of Heilmann had sent the colour
to my cheeks, this sad refusal on the part of Gisquette put the climax
to my irritation. Unloosing my purse angrily from my waistband, I
threw down on the bench the value of the mirror, which I laid hold of
with one hand, while with the other I forced my way through the crowd
with the young girl, and drew her to some distance from the place.
“Claude, we spent seven days together, Gisquette and I, in
Aix-la-Chapelle, seven whole days, days of happiness, which will never
be effaced from my memory. I followed Gisquette like her shadow; she,
poor child, out of her pure simple heart vowed to me, unworthy as I
was, her first love. At the end of that time we parted ... never to
meet again ... and to-day....”
John Gutenberg was silent. Again he pressed to his heart the son of
Gisquette, that son whom he had just found. Claude had but little to
add to complete his father’s story. He told him of the sorrowful
life led by Gisquette, of her unbroken faith to him, and how on her
death-bed it had been her consolation to bequeath Claude as a last
pledge of affection to her absent friend.
When the young man had ceased speaking, there was a solemn silence in
the hut. The faithful Beildech feasted his looks on them both. The old
man, his eyes struck with blindness, his hair falling in white curls,
his long venerable beard resting on that bosom, oppressed by the memory
of the past, and agitated by the emotion of the present.... Ah! whoever
had seen Gutenberg at this moment could not have failed to liken him to
Œdipus in the arms of Antigone; he was bent, infirm, and weakened by
age; it was, nevertheless, the head of a king and the heart of a father.
“I tell you in truth,” it was thus that Gutenberg spoke, with
trembling lips, “yes, I tell you truly, death, which is now
approaching, will be for me a haven full of blessedness. Love is
guiding me here below, it will also receive me on the other side; it
is of the best works that it is written, they shall not forsake the
just, but shall follow them. The arts and sciences which we pursue
without relaxation, the fame and glory which shall carry our names to
posterity, are but as sounding brass and tinkling cymbals in comparison
with the words of love, pure, divine, and human love. Yes, I think
that my life will not have been entirely useless to others, that
the seed which I have sown will bear fruit and become a tree, under
whose branches the generations to come may find rest and shelter. My
endeavour has been to give freedom to thought, to give wings to words;
the one and the other, thanks to my discovery, will one day overrun
the metamorphosed earth; full of independence and of liberty they will
immortalize my name. But, nevertheless, I should have gone down to the
tomb without consolation, and without peace, if I had possessed only
the light of reason to enlighten my darkened way.* A son has been
given to me, and I shall no more wander through desert paths solitary
and alone. Man will ever remain man. His heart cannot feed eternally on
glory and on hope. Love will always be the best part of his being, and
that is why I would have given the labour of my whole life in exchange
for thee, Claude, who art even more to me than my invention; thou art
my son, the messenger sent by Gisquette, who speaks to me from eternal
blessedness!”
* I will not, says the author of the Death of Gutenberg, let
the authority for the blindness of my hero rest on fiction
alone. My readers will permit me to cite the testimony of
a man who was contemporary with Gutenberg, Wimphelin of
Schlestadt, who at the age of fifteen came to Strasburg, in
the year 1465. He says distinctly, in speaking of Gutenberg,
in his catalogue of the Bishops of Strasburg written in 1508:
“ductu cujusdam Johannis Gensfleisch, ex senio cæci.”
Gutenberg died neglected and in destitution. His death excited no
interest among his careless and ungrateful contemporaries. It is only
on the faith of a dusty old parchment, which does not even make direct
mention of the inventor of printing, that we learn that John Gutenberg
must have been gathered to his fathers about the 24th of February,
1468. In what place? That remains uncertain, and even to this day we
should be ignorant on that point had not an inscription written in his
honour by Adam Gelthuss, a relation of the printer, fallen accidentally
into our hands. It is in Latin, and says that the bones of Gutenberg
repose in the Church of St. François at Maïence.
So much for history. As for us, it is with a sensation of pain, and a
blush on our forehead, that we close this page of our book, in which
we have narrated the acts and discourses worthy of admiration, and the
death of him who discovered the most remarkable, the most wonderful of
all the arts, that which is destined to re-model the world.
Poetry in composing a picture, of which the plot has been gathered
thread by thread from the dark abyss of archives, has taken upon
herself to throw a ray of light on the last days of the great inventor,
to cast on his tomb a palm-branch of peace and of hope. Was that
not her right? And has she any occasion to justify herself? In
our opinion the noblest duty of intelligence, as well as its most
glorious appanage, is to enlighten, to reconcile, to restore to light,
especially when life has only left behind it a few vague shadows, and
an unknown tomb!
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation and the “long s” have been modernised; spelling has been
retained as it appears in the original publication.