John Gutenberg, First Master Printer. Franz von Dingelstedt

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СКАЧАТЬ in the height of good humour, for the pre-occupations of his uncle the Burgomaster affected him but very slightly. “Eh! what then,” said he to the assembled guests, “are we not here in our free city of Maïence, under the protection of the pastoral staff of His Grace our Archbishop, whom may God protect? Let my Lord of Nassau intrigue, and cabal as he will, as long as the Rhine flows between him and us, as long as our good walls defend us, we may laugh at his Grace; and moreover our art, our beautiful art, does it not flourish more and more every year? Have we not five good presses in the workshop? Have we not fifty vigorous arms employed in our service? Come, come, my gracious uncle, come, worthy father, put away your fears, and your scruples; fill up your glasses, and second me when I drink to ‘the noble art of printing,’ with ‘three times three.’”

      The guests responded to this appeal, and the noise of the vivat had scarcely subsided when a great disturbance was heard on the stairs adjoining the banquet-room, and a confusion of voices and footsteps, which seemed to indicate a quarrel. The host was about to rise and go in person to the spot from whence the noise proceeded, to call the disputants to order, when the door was suddenly thrown open. On the threshold appeared two workmen, dragging a third individual by his arms, and who, to judge from his age and appearance, was only an apprentice; “Look, master,” said the eldest of the men, “here is a fellow who dares to disturb your festival by coming even into your house to abuse your art, and your noble trade.” “Yes, it is true,” continued the second workman, “but it shall not be permitted, were I never again to touch a type, or the cheek of a pretty maiden!”

      “It is the Strasburger who lies!” exclaimed the young boy, making vigorous efforts to free himself from the gripe of his accusers. “I said not a word against you or your art; it is they, on the contrary, who slandered your son-in-law, and even your daughter dame Christine; and you see, master, that was more than I could bear, so my French blood rebelled.” “Let peace be in this house,” replied Fust, in a commanding tone; “and you Strasburger, who are the eldest, you speak first, and let go your hold of the Parisian!”

      “Master, we were down below there, sitting drinking our beer, as your worshipful company, saving your presence, is now seated drinking your wine; we sang, we drank, we laughed, not a soul among us thought of quarrelling; suddenly, I had just delivered myself of a little bon-mot, such as is not unusual at our German weddings – ”

      “Strasburger, what was that bon-mot? Come, out with it frankly!”

      “I said,” replied the workman, hesitating, “I said – ”

      Here the Parisian, with the vivacity of a Frenchman, interrupted the other, and repeated the bon-mot in question – a witticism so strongly seasoned, that, although it might be allowable at a country wedding, it could not be repeated here without a breach of good manners.

      This unexpected communication was received with a violent burst of laughter from the male part of the company, including even the worthy Burgomaster Jacob Fust, the bridegroom alone felt his anger rising, and, having some difficulty in restraining himself, he bounded from his seat, while the cheeks of his gentle better-half, Christine, became of a deeper hue than the velvet of the dress she wore.

      The Strasburger, emboldened by the success of his bon-mot, and by the excellent reception it had met with, cast a look of triumphant satisfaction on the little Parisian, who stood by speechless and astounded. At this moment a bashful glance directed to him by dame Christine, unseen by all the rest, rewarded him for his chivalrous conduct. The old workman continued his harangue.

      “Master, you see, it is on account of this innocent jest that the fellow has made this disturbance; he pretended that the honour of your house was compromised, as well as that of the dame, your daughter, which God defend from injury; he struck the table violently with his fist, and, in fact, behaved like a madman. The Frankforter, who stands there, tried by a paternal remonstrance to bring him to reason, and we were once more seated behind our goblets, when, behold, the young good-for-nothing recommences. We were drinking unanimously to the health of the art of printing, that it might flourish at least a thousand years, when all on a sudden, with his two little spindle legs, he leaps on the table, upsets the goblets, and exclaims that we must not forget him who first invented the trade, who was the author of all our good fortune, him who revealed our beautiful art to the world at large. We both opened our mouths wide – may the Lord forgive us our sin – the wretch told us he was going to speak of the Holy Trinity, when, behold, he calls out, with all the force of his lungs, ‘Long live Gutenberg; long live Master Jean Gutenberg, of Maïence!’ The Frankforter then seized him by one leg, I by the other, we dragged him down from the table and brought him here. Now he stands before you, he who was not ashamed in your own house to give all the honour and praise to Gutenberg.” The Strasburger was silent. At the name of Gutenberg the company became visibly embarrassed; the countenances of some of the guests evinced an ironical pleasure. Peter Schoeffer, looking down, busied himself awkwardly in readjusting the frill of his shirt, while Master Fust, not caring particularly to meet the fiery eye of the little Parisian, turned alternately from one workman to the other.

      “Children,” replied he, after a moment’s painful pause, “children, you are but simpletons after all; what is the use of troubling your heads, on a day like this, with such nonsense? Leave Gutenberg to himself, and let us enjoy in peace the good which God has given us!”

      “Master,” exclaimed the little Frenchman, in a lofty tone, and interrupting Fust, without hesitation, “that is what we have done; but allow me to say one word, one only, with an honesty worthy of the great art which we promote; if all this company thinks to-day of you, and of Master Peter Schoeffer of Gernsheim, of his letter-founding, of his skill in engraving, in illuminating, in printing, ought we, on that account, to forget the man to whom we owe all that we now have? That is why, I say it again, and may all those who feel as they ought to do, say it after me, ‘Long live Gutenberg of Maïence, the first printer of the world, long may he live!’”

      With three bounds, and before he could be prevented, the audacious boy reached the table, seized one of the filled wine-cups, and emptied it at a draught. He had just laid it down again, with a crash, when Master Fust, red with anger, pushed him roughly aside, “Fellow,” he exclaimed, in a voice husky with vexation, “what have you done?” “What you should have done instead of me,” replied the little Frenchman, without being disconcerted, and becoming more calm in proportion that his master grew more excited. “How! you have the audacity to come here and jeer us in the presence of our guests, and, above all, in the presence of my brother, the most worthy Burgomaster? To the door, to the door, with the little brawler! Go, go, to your Gutenberg, see if his great presses are at work; go, run through the streets and highways with your hero. To the door with him, I say!” The printer threw a few pieces of small money to the Parisian, and with an angry gesture pointed to the door. “Master Fust,” replied the other, while collecting the coins which were scattered over the floor, “if I pick up this money, it is to take what you owe me; but I cannot go to Master Gutenberg, and that you know as well as I do. Since the day he was obliged to give up his establishment to you, for a debt of a hundred, or a couple of hundred dollars, which you lent him at a high interest, he has not been in a position to set up any press worth speaking of. So it always is in this world. To the one, head and intelligence, to the other money!”

      These last words were scarcely uttered, when a blow from a fist fell on the cheek of the little Frenchman. Master John Fust, incapable of further self-control, had struck the blow; and, if Schoeffer and the two other workmen had not interfered, a serious scene might have ensued, to the cost of the audacious boy, and in presence of the guests. In an instant the whole assembly was in an uproar; Christine took refuge, trembling, in the arms of her husband; the guests swore, threatened, jeered, murmured; the workmen in the meanwhile had all the trouble in the world to restrain the little Frenchman, whose clear silvery voice called out through the crowd, “Master Fust, you have no right to strike me! you had not the right even when I was in your service, you have it still less now. I insist on your giving me satisfaction!”

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