Kitabı oku: «John Gutenberg, First Master Printer», sayfa 2

Chapter II

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!